


I Will Help Shoulder Weight

by agggron



Category: Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agggron/pseuds/agggron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the fall of the house of Batiatus, Spartacus and his army of freed slaves travel Rome to unshackle those still in chains. When the group liberates a villa, the gladiator Agron encounters a former body slave named Nasir. The following is their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This ongoing series serves to follow each episode of Spartacus and fill in the blanks between the pairing's onscreen appearances; it will follow canon as closely as humanly possible, but will expand a little bit on it. As long as I've got episodes of Spartacus to work with, so the fic will continue! (:

Agron stood at the edge of the woods and stared into them. Blue eyes searched for darker ones, Syrian eyes staring back at him but found none. They'd been gone for too long, the group going after Naevia; if the rescue had gone to plan, they would have arrived there at the base of Vesuvius already. Something had delayed them. Something had interfered and there was every chance the whole of them were dead and gone within the maze of mines.

And Agron had left them to that fate.

It was nightfall now. There were footsteps behind him. He didn't draw his sword but instead kept his face turned toward the long woods they'd traveled to reach what would be their new base. The footsteps were delicate, but not the footsteps of someone sneaking; no, they were only of a woman.

She stood in silence next to him for a moment, peering through the trees as well. Agron glanced her way; she was one of the slaves from the villa they'd liberated. Blonde of hair and fair of skin. Had taken up with one of the Gauls. He didn't know her name.

He wondered if she was waiting for him, too. For her previous Dominus' body slave. For the dark-skinned Syrian. Because surely she wasn't missing that shit-eating Gaul of hers. She only had to speak to confirm his suspicions. "He never should have gone. If they had to fight their way out…"

"He's drawn sword against Romans before," Agron was quick to reply. The German had been telling himself the very same thing, trying to find comfort in it. It was after a moment that he realized he'd revealed himself in his hasty answer. He made no secret of his affection, but neither did he make a spectacle of it. No matter; she had to have already known. Otherwise she would have been more plain in who she was referring to.

Agron sighed. "Fucking Crixus. They never should have gone in after his woman. No doubt they all died for her."

The woman reached out and touched his arm. He glanced down at those fingers, brow furrowed. He didn't want her touching him; last time he'd taken notice of her, that ugly Gaul had been cock-deep inside of her. Or it could have been that Agron was just bitter because those weren't the hands he truly wanted to feel.

"Return to camp," he said abruptly, shaking her hand off. He looked once more toward the woods. _Come now_ , he thought. _Before I have to come find you_. The slave woman - Chadara, he would soon find out she was called - did as she was told, and after a few moments alone, hoping and hoping, Agron followed. He was finished waiting for their return from the mines. He would hasten it.

* * *

The group's spirits were high. They'd journeyed all the way to Vesuvius and had survived with only scant encounters with the enemy, ones that had claimed no lives but those of the Romans and those loyal to Rome. That Agron had to - no, had decided to - dampen those high spirits with what he was about to say weighed heavy on him. He stepped among and over tired bodies until he stood in the midst of them all, and then raised voice. "We're safe here," he said, and that was met with a few cheers. He bore no smile, though. "There are those of us still in danger. The ones that went into the mines - word has not yet reached us of their fate. But I fear the worst. That Romans are pursuing them and they flee here. Without aid they will all die." It was clear that he meant for them to be that aid.

"And what if we should share that fate?" One of the gladiators stepped forward. "If they've got the entire Roman fucking army at their backs, we'll be the next ones slaughtered."

There was a moment of stillness and quiet after those words fell. In that moment, all Agron could see in his mind's eye was a small, dark body crawling through the forest, calling for him, calling for help—

Agron drew his sword. The crowd immediately, collectively took a step back; some of the men reached for their own weapons, but didn't draw them as he had. Agron pointed that sword toward the man that had spoken and started moving, circling him. A path was made for him. "Are you a fucking gladiator," he spat, "or are you a coward?" No matter that he'd been the one to lead them here for their safety instead of leading them to the mines, which would have surely been their graves. Had that been cowardice, too?

But all around him stood not only gladiators. No, there were slaves. Women. People that never would have been able to stand against the Romans, not on the road to Vesuvius or in the mines. He had made the right choice for them. Now they were safe - as safe as fugitives could be.

A frustrated noise escaped him and he stopped his pacing, glancing back toward the woods and still hoping to find the flash of skin bathed in moonlight. Still none. The German lowered his sword, let it hang at his side before sliding blue eyes back to the men and women intent on him. "We'll comb the woods. Search for any survivors. We won't go back to the mines. If any of them are still there, it's in chains or in pools of blood.

"Those of you who are willing and able," he continued, "who have swords, take them up. And let's hunt some fucking Romans. We leave at dawn."

The men seemed to like that. He grinned with them, pumped his fist, but the Romans were not what he was hunting. He was hunting for whatever remained of the group that had gone into the mines. For the leader of this rebellion, Spartacus, and if asked why he risked life and limb, he might say it was for that man. But when dawn approached, and it would be soon, there would only be one he thought of as he moved through those wood once again. Only one - Nasir.

Agron turned from the group and from where they'd made their camp. His footfalls led him back to his sentry position at the edge of the woods, and there he would wait until the sun peeked over the horizon. There he would close his eyes and remember the mere moments he'd had with that fucking Syrian, and pray to the gods for a few more.

There, at the edge of the forest, Agron looked for respite in his memories. There, he remembered and found comfort.

 

 

 

 

' _My brother called me Nasir_ ,' he'd said. Agron couldn't free his mind of it. He'd been sure the Syrian had been intent on ending Spartacus' life, and then he'd saved them all. Had seen to it that those scouts would never leave the villa with the knowledge that rebels and freed slaves occupied it. The little dog they'd all meant to put down had revealed himself as true and had shrugged off his ties to Rome when he'd spoken his true name.

And Agron's mind was full of him.

The hour was late. Early the next day they were to move against some slave traders riding toward the mines. Agron should have been resting; they had this villa now and could come by sleep more easily within those walls, but even as the rest of their numbers slumbered around him, he found no peace. No peace from the man that had once claimed to be more Roman than Syrian, but no more.

Agron sat up and rubbed calloused hands over tired face. Bare feet found the cool stone floor beneath him and he walked with no destination, until he heard the sounds of another waking soul. It was toward those sounds that he moved, toward someone to share in his sleeplessness, whoever it may be. The sounds were not loud, only of feet moving in sand and cold metal swinging through the night air.

The courtyard - the one that reminded Agron so much of the house of Batiatus, where the gladiators had trained - was empty save one other man. The very one that occupied Agron's mind and stole him from sleep now danced in the moonlight with sword and shield. Agron watched as his small, dark frame lunged toward an invisible attacker, thrust with the sword and kept the shield tucked close to his body. Initially, his gaze was a scrutinizing one, looking on the Syrian as Doctore would have looked upon him, but as moments passed so did any caring for technique. Instead, he found himself admiring the man. The little dog that had bared teeth. Agron would have him whimper.

The German leaned against a column of stone, feet yet upon the deck and not the sand. Strong arms crossed over a broad chest and he found himself grinning even as he banished that last thought from his mind. Nasir needed to be a soldier, not a lover. Not both, not yet, and Agron would have to often remind himself of this.

"Who do you fight so fiercely, little man?" Agron called out, blue gaze sliding up the Syrian's body from bottom to top. Nasir spun around, his dark eyes wide with surprise at the sound of another's voice. The sword faltered, Agron noticed; it lowered just slightly before Nasir caught it and lifted it again.

"The Romans," came the answer.

"It wasn't long ago you counted yourself among them," Agron returned. There was a teasing in his tone.

The sword faltered again, but this time lowered entirely, Nasir's arm hanging at his side. "No longer," he said. _No longer_. Agron recalled the conversation they'd had. ' _I too had a brother_ ,' Agron had said. ' _No longer?_ ' Nasir had asked, though he'd been called Tiberius then. The pain of losing Duro lingered and always would, though sometimes Agron forgot it. Like then, when he'd been watching Nasir move.

Agron pushed himself away from the pillar and walked out into the courtyard and began to slowly circle Nasir, examining him as he did so. "Even with training from the mighty Spartacus, slayer of Theokoles, you handle the sword like a child." He meant to inflame Nasir. To enrage him. There was a flicker of defiance in those dark eyes, but the remark was otherwise met with silence. Agron had not stopped in his circling of the man.

"Continue," Agron ordered. Nasir shifted the sword in his hand for a moment and seemed to weigh the demand, but soon took up his weapon and continued much in the way he had when he'd been unaware of his audience, though there seemed to be a bit more effort put forth underneath the watchful eyes of the gladiator.

 _Soldier_ , Agron told himself. Nasir's dark skin glistened with sweat even without the sun beating down upon him. _Soldier, not a lover_. "Stop," his voice rang out. The mantra continued in the back of his mind.

"You hide behind your shield, little man," he observed, stepping closer. He moved toward the other man's back; Nasir turned his head to keep Agron in his periphery, it seemed, but was otherwise still. "The sword isn't the only weapon you have," Agron continued. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the wrist of Nasir's shield arm, making the other man extend that arm. Only a short distance separated their two bodies; one step forward and they would have been pressed close, Agron's front to Nasir's back. "Don't hold it to you so tightly. It is not something to cling to. It's part of you, as sword is part of you. An extension of your body."

Moonlight revealed goosebumps rising on the Syrian's skin. Agron was close enough to see them; they drew his eye but he forced himself not to linger. He did lean forward, though, even as he released Nasir's wrist. "Again," he said into the other man's ear, and then stepped back to once again observe. Nasir slashed at the air and better used his shield offensively after Agron's brief instruction. He learned quickly, it seemed. The dog had more than just sharp teeth and claws.

Agron moved to a corner of the courtyard, where the weapons for training were kept, and bent to pick up one of the swords. He took only one, and no shield, to give Nasir advantage. He would need it. Agron twirled the sword in hand, caught the Syrian's eye with the movement. And when their gazes met, the gladiator nodded, and within a moment the sound of steel against steel rang through the courtyard.

Nasir fought fiercely, but Agron countered him at every turn. There was a short pause in the fight during which Nasir caught his breath, and Agron offered him a too-playful grin. "Reach out and touch me, little man," he baited, and there was a hint of a smile on Nasir's face before he swung with his sword again.

Perhaps Agron had let his guard down, or perhaps he was a good teacher; no matter which, Nasir drew blood. Only a scratch on Agron's upper arm, and the amount of blood exaggerated the severity of it. Nasir halted, eyes wide, and his lips parted to let out a warning or, perhaps, an apology, but words never passed those lips because air was stolen from them. Agron took advantage of Nasir's dropped guard and knocked him to the ground, using his larger frame to pin the smaller to the sands.

"Show that mercy to the Romans," Agron said, voice breathless from the training, "and you'll find head parted from body." He lingered, though he shouldn't have. Nasir didn't squirm, didn't try to push him away and so he stayed for a moment longer than he should have allowed himself. And the entire time, he held Nasir's gaze; the Syrian couldn't look away.

"What," Agron challenged after a few beats of silence. "Did someone rob you of your tongue? I remember you having more bark than that, little man."

Nasir seemed to be weighing something. The fingers that were slack around the strap of his shield flexed, as if he meant to move, but he apparently thought better of it. What he'd meant to do with that hand, Agron didn't know. He could guess.

Having gotten no reply, Agron started to move, to pick himself up off of Nasir's body. But, hastily, the Syrian spoke, as if to hold Agron there. "It was mercy that kept me from taking off your arm."

There was a moment of silence in which Agron turned to stare down at Nasir, both eyebrows raised. The gladiator wasn't blind; he saw eagerness there in Nasir's face. It was likely he wasn't aware of it. A grin curled Agron's lips and was followed by a laugh, and in the midst of that laughter he reached out and cupped Nasir's jaw in one large hand. "I count myself lucky, then," he said, and then finally climbed onto his feet. He reached out for Nasir's hand and was given it, then helped the man to stand. As soon as the Syrian's feet found purchase, Agron used that grip to pull the smaller body close.

"You fought well," he offered, looking down at the face lifted toward his own. "Tomorrow we intercept a slaver's cart on the road. I will have your sword next to me." And before Nasir had time to answer, Agron used his free hand to clasp the man's forearm. "Regain your strength, Nasir. Sleep." And, with that, he retreated within the villa, leaving the other man there in the sand.

He found that the Syrian name somehow tasted better than the Roman one had.

* * *

There sat the fallen Crixus, heart broken in two. Agron, for once, felt pity for the man. Not pity enough to tell him the truth, that Naevia had been sent to the mines, but pity enough that he almost wished it wasn't a necessary evil.

Now he and Nasir held this weight: the weight of knowing the truth and being false. Some bore that weight better than others. "A sword in his chest would be a blow less felt," Nasir said. He could barely meet Agron's eyes, except when the gladiator reached out and took his hand.

"We've all made sacrifices." There was a familiar pain in his chest, one that accompanied thought of his brother. "Crixus now makes his."

"I would speak with him—" Nasir moved toward the Gaul, pulled his hand from Agron's grip but they weren't parted for long. Agron leaned forward, and there had been the slightest jump in his heartbeat, the slightest panic. No one could know what they knew but it seemed Nasir wasn't prepared to keep this secret.

"Your words would only cause greater suffering," Agron said beseechingly. He glanced toward Crixus. That Gaul's pain wasn't so great that all else should be sacrificed to ease it. "If he knew the truth…" Blue eyes searched for those darker ones, held them. Agron let go of Nasir's hand only to touch his face, demand his attention and show him that in that moment, they were one. They were in this together. "I would not have you—" _Not you, not after Duro_. "—and countless others fall in vain attempt."

Because vain attempt it would be, to rescue that woman from the mines. None of them would come out alive. Strong as they were, they could not stand against Rome and against labyrinthine tunnels that would surely trap them like rats. Of this Agron was sure.

Agron's hand lingered there on Nasir's face, his thumb shifting slightly to brush the man's cheekbone as he nodded. It was a welcome feeling, that skin-against-skin, and he swore he could feel the Syrian's face warm beneath the touch. He wanted more of it - more heat and the other man's eyes always on him as they were in that moment - but he denied himself that. He drew back. "Come," he said, and he offered Nasir a small grin. "There's much planning yet needed towards Neapolis."

He turned to leave Crixus to his heartache, and Nasir soon followed. "I felt less robbing a man of his life than I do robbing this man of his heart," Nasir said, and Agron's footfalls slowed. He should have been firm in that moment. Should have threatened Nasir to keep him from exposing them, but he found himself unable. No, he had a fondness for how very gentle the Syrian was revealing himself to be, when not long before he'd had no pity for anyone but himself. He'd even made an attempt on Spartacus's life in that anger.

The thought drew a short laugh from Agron. "None would be able to find middle ground within you, little man." he observed, turning the corner into one of the villas many rooms. He used that address, that pet name with more affection than he had before. "When you rage, you rival the wrath of the fucking gods. And when you take pity, it's with all of you." The room was empty, leaving them alone. It was a room that Agron and a number of the gladiators used for sleep, though it wasn't yet late enough for any of them to be settled in. Agron knew it would give himself and the Syrian the privacy they needed, as Nasir was still burdened with too much guilt and would speak words to condemn them. There, no one would hear those words. "I wonder what you might do with passion," he added, despite himself and with one of his grins.

"You speak to me in riddles," Nasir said. Agron turned to find the other man's eyes downcast. There was a familiar blush on his cheeks, too, one that begged to be touched again. Agron's hands, though, remained where they were, but he did draw closer.

"And you feel in extremes," he replied. He ducked his head down, tilted it to the side to try to find Nasir's gaze with his own. It was on him suddenly, so that he stopped in his approach.

"Do you not?" Nasir asked.

That gave Agron pause, and the grin on his face flickered. "Do I not what?"

"…Feel."

Agron knew what Nasir asked of him. Not if he had emotions, no. To someone listening to their conversation, that might have seemed the case, but there was more between them than met the eye. There were looks that had been exchanged, fleeting touches, moments of tension - so what Nasir really asked was clear.

There was some distance between them that Agron would close, but for every step forward he took, Nasir took one back. Soon enough, the Syrian's back was against the wall, and he had nowhere else to go. So Agron advanced. "You know my answer," he said, voice low. The way Nasir pushed himself back against the wall demanded Agron's body there, pushing him from the front. And so they were pressed together, closer than they'd ever been. One of Agron's hands was splayed on the wall and the other reached out, wrapped around the back of the man's neck. His thumb traced the line of his jaw, turned Nasir's head at his will and exposed the long expanse of the Syrian's throat.

How badly Agron wanted to taste that skin. And there it was, offered to him freely; Nasir made no attempt to move away from the touch, no, but tilted his head back to further Agron's cause. The Syrian's eyes were closed and his breath came quickly, and Agron could feel the tension in him. The anticipation. But he would not be fulfilled that day.

Agron took a deep, steadying breath. He leaned forward, and his lips hovered over Nasir's skin but never touched. They hovered over his throat, his jaw, over his lips and cheeks and Nasir would be able to feel their presence though they did not find purchase. "Neapolis awaits us," he whispered finally. Nasir's dark eyes fluttered open and they were hazy when they fell upon Agron's face. The German continued. "Only there will I have time enough to show what I feel." Agron's fingertips slid into Nasir's dark hair and tangled there. "Slowly. And thoroughly. To leave no room for questions." And there was his grin again. Such a promising grin. Nasir's eyes closed again and he nodded, returning a faint smile.

There was a surge of voices outside. Agron tore his gaze away from the face so close to his own. The subject of Neapolis would soon be breached, and he needed to be there for it. "Come," he said, turning back to Nasir. Those dark eyes were looking at him again. Slowly, reluctantly, he slid his fingers from Nasir's hair and took a step back. "There's more to be done." Because if either of them wanted the promise that awaited them in Neapolis, the others would first have to be convinced to journey there at all.

* * *

The villa was quiet. The next day they would leave for Neapolis, where they would liberate countless fighting men from the ships that made port there. That was what Agron needed to be focused on. It was what he should have been thinking of as he sat awake amongst all of the other slumbering bodies, but his attention was elsewhere.

Nasir robbed him of sense at the worst of times. He could have been doing countless other things, productive things - planning or even resting, perhaps - but instead his eyes were closed and his mind was full of the dark-skinned man. Not of Neapolis, not of the secret he kept from Crixus, but of the Syrian. Agron remembered how their bodies had pressed together against that wall, remembered the harsh breath from Nasir's throat and the heat that came from him and Agron wondered in that moment how he'd ever been able to stay his desire.

It overtook him then. His body hummed with tension and there would be only one way to relieve himself of this. Abruptly, Agron pushed himself away from the wall he sat up against and stood. It was with careful footsteps he walked through the sea of sleeping bodies on the floor. He saw Nasir's compact figure there, no doubt dreaming peacefully of what he would find in Neapolis - or perhaps dreaming of him. Of Agron. That was a welcome thought.

Though his body begged him to stop, to bend and rouse Nasir and claim his lips in a kiss and steal the sleep away from him, Agron paid it no heed. He moved past the Syrian that so tortured him even without knowing, past the gladiators and freed slaves that seemed to litter every corner of the villa, until he found privacy - or the closest thing he could get. There were few people in here, and a pillar that would shield him from view, so it would suffice. He knew not what purpose this room had served when the villa's dominus had still roamed its stone halls, and he cared even less; it would now serve a new purpose.

Agron fell back against side of the pillar and closed his eyes, and his hands roamed to his middle even as he slid to the floor. The subligaria was made hasty work of, leaving him naked in air seeming much cooler now that this fire was rising in him. Only when his mind was free of Nasir, when the body thrumming with desire was sated, would Agron be able to rest. He would find release quickly and by his own hand.

Calloused fingers wrapped around heated flesh and pulled a shaking breath from the German's throat. So invested in Nasir was he that there was no trouble imagining the hands that touched him were not his own, but those of his Syrian. Soon fluid gathered and eased the way of his pumping hand, and each stroke was met with a short thrusting of his hips, a slight roll of his muscled body.

His breath came faster. Agron swallowed the sounds that rose in his throat, soft whispers of the other man's name, because _he_ did this to him. No matter that he wasn't there kneeling between Agron's legs and lavishing attention on the throbbing flesh that demanded it; everything Agron felt and the way he moved under the stroking of his hand was for Nasir.

Neapolis called to him. He would have Nasir on his back. He would have him on top, would have him against the wall, their bodies damp with sweat and pressed so close that one would be indistinguishable from the other and he would draw it out. He would force them both to the edge of madness with the pace if only to sample of every last noise that could possibly fall from the Syrian's lips.

This fantasy was what drove his hand to move faster and faster, as if he were thrusting against the body that would be his. As if the other man was there and wrapped around his cock. Agron wished for it; he wished for the dull, flat sound of their flesh joining, wished he could lean forward and drag his tongue over skin salty with sweat. All it had taken to set Nasir's heart to racing had been the touch of Agron's fingers to his neck, so to draw a whimper from him would be no chore. Agron wanted that sound in his ear as he touched himself. But no voice called out to him.

There was another sound, though. Was it the whisper of bare feet against stone floor that drew Agron's eye? He turned his head and blinked into the darkness, but by ever-present torchlight he saw a figure in the wide archway of the room. A ghost of a grin came onto Agron's face, chased quickly away by a pang of pleasure that instead twisted his expression into something desperate.

But his gaze never left that figure. When the torchlight flickered, it showed dark, Syrian eyes intent on him. Agron tightened his grip, clenched his teeth and bared them slightly.

And even as he held that gaze his release came upon him. It arched his body, forced a short, breathless sound from him. There was a mere moment, only seconds, in which his eyes fluttered closed as the pleasure overtook him, and when he opened them again, Nasir was gone. Agron turned away from the archway, tilted his head back against the pillar and struggled to catch his breath. His face broke into a smile; how long, he wondered, has Nasir been standing there, watching him? And how hungrily that gaze had regarded him.

The night seemed to grow darker and heavier, and it weighed down on Agron. The rest he'd so coveted would find him moments after he washed and gathered himself, and that voyeuristic gaze would visit him again in his dreams.

* * *

"I move for Vesuvius." Agron announced in the crowded courtyard. His eyes swept the people surrounding the scene. "Those that would live," he continued, finally glancing back at Spartacus. Fucking Thracian. "...follow me." He was decided. After a split second of absolute stillness, as if everyone waited to see if he meant what he said or if he would bend instead to the will of Spartacus and Crixus, he finally moved. Walked away. And soon others followed.

So they were divided. Some would go to their deaths in the mines, and others would find safety at Vesuvius and men to swell their ranks in Neapolis. He couldn't believe, couldn't fathom that there were men who would risk everything and likely sacrifice it all just for Naevia. But then he remembered Spartacus's words, the ones that had rung in his ears after the blow he'd suffered.

 _Duro_. It didn't matter that Spartacus was right; true, if it had been his brother trapped in the mines he wouldn't have hesitated to throw himself into their endless dark tunnels. But he never would have asked anyone to go with him. He never would have _expected_ that, not like Crixus. Would he have?

There were people following him. "Go prepare yourselves for the journey," he snapped, tone clipped, and most scattered. All did, except one. The man who had betrayed their secret. Agron didn't look at him but, instead, shoved at a nearby chair, somehow satisfied by the sound of it clattering to the stone floor underneath. How fucking dare Spartacus invoke his brother's name and use it against him. How fucking dare he. He felt sick. Hot with anger. He wanted to strike something and he would-

Except that when he turned around to find something else to throw, he was face-to-face with Nasir. Wide, dark eyes stared at him and he could see there was shame in them. An apology for what he'd done. Some of the fire inside died down, though not all of it. No, not all. Especially when the other man lifted a hand and brushed the pad of his thumb over Agron's bottom lip. The finger pulled away smeared with blood, and Agron remembered the stinging of Spartacus's swinging fist. He pressed his lips together briefly, clenching his jaw at the new, though slightly lesser, surge of anger.

"I had to-"

Agron quickly lifted a hand to stay the Syrian's words. He turned away and closed his eyes, leaned and pressed both on the table he found in front of him. It was the very one on which he and Spartacus had laid the map of Rome to decide their route to Vesuvius.

Cautious fingers touched the small of his back and he lowered his head, sliding his tongue against the inside of his lip where it had split. Nasir's voice sounded again. "The one he loves suffers in the mines. I could not have held my tongue forever. Better now when there's still chance of him finding her."

"And so you betray me," Agron countered, and the hand on his back withdrew. He was sad for it. There was no response from the other man and they remained as they were for a moment, until Agron let out a sigh. It was a sigh heavy with guilt. Guilt that he'd burdened Nasir with this secret. Guilt that he himself had kept the secret at all. Guilt that he now blamed the Syrian for betraying it. The rest of his fire burned out.

Agron straightened and turned back toward Nasir, reaching out to take the man's face in both hands. He looked surprised at the treatment, but that expression soon melted away when met with the gentle one on the gladiator's face. "You feel in extremes," Agron said, remembering previous words. "I expect nothing else." He wouldn't remain angry. He couldn't. There was relief in those Syrian eyes now, a slow and hesitant happiness.

Though it stung to do so, he grinned. Gently, he patted the side of Nasir's face. "So," he said. "Vesuvius. Let us make ready our things." And just as he pulled away, just as he started purposefully in another direction, Nasir reached out and touched him. It was more than cleaning him of blood this time; it was initiative. Dark-skinned, worked fingers played along his collarbone. Agron looked to Nasir, both eyebrows raised. This was new and very welcome, when before it had always been Agron reaching out searching hands with intent.

"Your brother's name was Duro," the Syrian said. His gaze was steady, but just below Agron's eyes, as if he didn't want to meet them. And it was understandable; the only other time the subject of Agron's brother had been broached, during their first conversation with one another, Nasir had wagged criticizing tongue against Duro turning sword against the Romans. This time was different. Things between them were different.

But it didn't lessen the pain at the reminder of his brother. There was a pang in Agron's chest, a mourning and hollow feeling, but there was also more than that. There was panic to speak of Duro beyond the tale of how he'd died. Memories lurked at the edge of his mind and here in front of him was one to hear them all.

But he couldn't. "Not now," Agron said, his refusal mild. Almost tender. "You'll know of him," he promised. "When I am ready." Briefly, Agron lifted his hand to touch the one Nasir had extended, his own fingertips brushing over the man's wrist. But as quickly as the touch had been there, it disappeared. The subject had been put to rest.

"Go," he said, nodding. "Finish preparing. I'm eager to leave." They exchanged the smallest of smiles, and in those smiles they held promises to be kept. Promises of the time awaiting them at Vesuvius and in Neapolis in which they would explore one another - now, it seemed, in more ways than one.

 

 

 

 

 

The sky above lightened. The stars were chased away one by one and in there wake lifted a white mist. It was the last thing they needed, this fog; they had a forest to scour, and the mist would only make it harder to distinguish friend from enemy amongst the trees.

Agron couldn't recall if he'd slept. Had those been dreams he'd fallen into, or only memories? It mattered not; these were waking hours, and every last minute of them would be used in the search for any survivors of the mines. The gladiator climbed to his feet and lingered at the edge of the woods for one more moment, hoping again to see the movement of a familiar figure, but there was none. And so he turned back toward the camp to rouse the men.

They armed themselves. There was no predicting what awaited them, no guessing what might have followed the other party through the wilderness. Some were left behind to defend the camp, should it come to that; the rest dressed and readied themselves, and followed Agron into the forest. They'd only just come from it, it seemed, on their way there, and now they charged into it once more. It was just as stifling as they'd all remembered it to be. The trees were all too close together, perhaps, or maybe it was the mist weighing down on them and coating their lungs. But still the party moved quickly and searched thoroughly in the morning light.

Time passed, and the longer they went without finding anything, the less hope there was of success. There were some among them that grew restless; they'd traveled far to reach this place and had hoped for rest but instead had been taken on this search and rescue mission. Soon, one of them men spoke up, pulling Agron from task. The German stopped and seemed reluctant to turn around and listen to what was being said.

"If death had not come to them, they would have found us or our camp by now," the gladiator said. He spoke the fear of all, and the very fear Agron had pushed to the back of his mind. He couldn't believe that. He refused to believe that. He refused to believe that he'd seen the last of the dark eyes he'd so favored.

He looked closely at the men. They had life yet in them. Energy. Their training at the ludus had been more than this. So he was decided.

"We search until we've found them or evidence of death," he said, and the tone of his voice was not to be argued with. "We'll not fucking abandon them again." Some would think him weak in his convictions. He had decided to continue on to Neapolis instead of going to the mines, and it had been the right decision. But then the idea of losing those who they'd left behind had crept up on him, and his convictions had changed.

But no one protested, and so the search continued. What, though, would happen if no one was found, or if only corpses awaited them? What would happen to the rebellion? Spartacus had been a rallying point; he'd been the leader, the man that every man had heard of. It was his name that persuaded people to this cause. If he was died, who then would be Spartacus, rebel leader?

A shout pulled Agron from his thoughts. Someone was calling his name. One of the gladiators was far off, crouching close to the ground, looking at something. "Blood," the man said, when Agron approached, "and dragging footsteps. A group passed here not long ago."

Agron's heart seemed to jump to his throat. "We must have missed them," he breathed, and then stood straight to address the others. "Circle around and move swiftly. That way." He pointed in the direction from which they'd come and then started to run, glancing down at his feet at intervals to make sure he followed those tracks. Every breath, every beat of his heart sounded loudly in his ears. All else was stifled. He heard not the crack of a branch underfoot or the rustling of leaves; it was as though all of his senses, all save his sight, had dulled so that he could better search for what he was looking for. For what he was truly looking for.

And there, through the trees, through the mist and after some time, did he see bodies silhouetted? He sped up, left the other men in his wake. Soon the fog cleared enough so all was revealed to him, and his steps slowed and eventually stopped. He couldn't help the shock that registered on his face. There stood Spartacus, the fucking cockroach that nothing could kill, and his woman Mira, swords drawn and determined, desperate expressions darkening their features.

Agron smiled, relief pumping through him. He'd found them. Running forward again, he reached out and clapped Spartacus's shoulder, looked behind him expecting to see the army of men he'd left with - but there was no army. And as his gaze shifted, it fell on two figures huddled against a tree. He passed by Spartacus without another glance, without a word, and ran to the tree, the breath suddenly stolen from his lungs. He knew that hair. The dark skin ashen now. The head bowed and face pale. Agron knelt and reached out, gently cupped the man's chin and lifted his head. _Open your eyes_ , he begged silently. _Open your eyes and look at me._

And so Nasir obeyed. Dark eyes opened, though they were hazy until they focused on Agron's face. There was the hint of a smile on the Syrian's lips, though it quickly fled. Alive. He was alive. Agron wanted to smile, wanted so badly to give Nasir that welcome, but he couldn't smile for the worry and pain in his heart at seeing the Syrian like this. No matter; Nasir was weak and couldn't hold his head up, nor could he keep his gaze fixed on Agron.

The gladiator looked toward the one sitting with him. Naevia. Of course. He gave her a nod, a gesture that she no longer needed to protect Nasir. Not when Agron was there. He reached out and gathered that broken body in his arms, one under Nasir's knees and the other cradling him, pressing heated face against his neck, and slowly, Nasir's arms lifted to wrap weakly around the man that carried him.

There were no words. There was no need. Nasir could rest, because in Agron's arms, no more harm would come to him.


	2. Chapter 2

The makeshift camp they'd made was disassembled, packed again once Spartacus and the rest were returned to them. There was still some distance to travel, and to make a home so out in the open would only hasten the rebellion's end. More permanent and more hidden lodgings were needed.

But all had come such a distance already; time was needed to gather wits and strength and to look toward future. And more than that, there were wounds to be tended.

Agron's arms were tight around Nasir still. The smaller body was pressed securely against him and the gladiator's footsteps were light so there was no misstep, no stumble that would cause Nasir further pain. And he'd suffered so much already. Somehow, having the Syrian returned to him and so wounded was more terrifying than the concept of him never returning had been.

Now there was the chance that Nasir would die in his arms instead of in the mines. As Agron knelt to gently lower the man onto a blanket laid out for him, he recalled Duro. His brother had fallen into his arms and had looked up at him just as Nasir did in that moment. Agron had watched the life go from Duro's eyes and in a second of panic, he looked for that same thing in Nasir's gaze. But instead the Syrian's eyelids fluttered shut and a noise left him, one that told of pain - but also of life.

He felt a coward. It seemed Nasir had more bravery in the face of his wound than the German did. Would Agron have rather had Nasir die in the mines where he would not have had to witness? He pushed it from his mind. It was a path he would never know, because Nasir was here. In his arms.

Hands more accustomed to wielding a sword than to tending wounds saw to the Syrian's clothes, stripped his upper half to reveal the tear in his flesh. Agron's brows drew together as he looked at it. The skin was blistered and shining. He knew the look of branded flesh; his own arm bore such a wound, long healed. But Nasir's was the angry and red of just-burned skin, a desperate and hasty measure to stop life flowing from body.

Reaching out, Agron touched Nasir's abdomen, just outside of his wound. It drew a hiss from the other man and he lifted slightly, curled in pain. A hand pressed to his chest as Agron eased him back down, leaning over him. "Still yourself, little man," he said gently. He hated to see the ashen face below his own contorted in pain. He was no medicus; he knew nothing of what herbs should be mixed and administered, what should be sprinkled into a drink and poured down a parched throat to remove the agony of this injury. There was little he could do.

But what little there was, he _would_ do it. Agron tore his gaze from Nasir's face and found it resting on Chadara, who stood nearby. She looked stricken not only because of Nasir's wound, but because her Gaul had not returned. "Water," he said to her. "And cloth, to clean the wound." She nodded and went to gather all Agron had requested so that he could turn his attention back to Nasir.

"I could almost mistake you for a gladiator," he said lightly, forcing a grin onto his face, "with a wound like that." Agron wouldn't show his fear or his cowardice to Nasir. He needed strength and support, and Agron would provide.

A breathless noise passed Nasir's lips, something close to a laugh, though it was cut off. "I have been branded as…" He paused to catch his breath. "…as you have."

Agron pressed his lips together briefly and extended his hand to brush the Syrian's long hair from his damp forehead. "You've proved yourself part of this brotherhood more than once," he said. "And you'll wear the mark of it from now on."

Chadara returned with water and cloth. Agron dampened the cloth and slowly, gently began to clean Nasir's wound, and soon the bowl of water was foggy with dirt and with blood. The severity of the wound revealed itself as layers of filth were washed away all by Agron's caring hands. Time passed in silence and Agron thought that maybe Nasir had fallen into unconsciousness - but then his voice sounded again.

"The Romans," he said. "They strung them up in trees." Agron's hand paused and he looked to Nasir's face. His eyes were closed and rolling behind his eyelids, as if he looked up into the trees above and saw what he described. Though his words were confusing, Agron could glean meaning from them. He imagined one of his brothers hung by a rope, dead and dripping blood and swinging in a breeze. It was easy enough to imagine that cruelty from the Roman shits.

"Apologies," Agron said in a whisper, dipping the cloth again into the bowl. Chadara, ever-watchful, had deftly replaced it with one filled with clean water. "I should have been there."

It was exactly as he'd been telling himself as soon as they'd been divided. That he should have gone to the mines. He should have added one more number to their ranks and perhaps he could have helped more of them return from the journey. Maybe he could have prevented this happening to Nasir.

When again Nasir spoke, his words were slurred. No doubt he was fighting to stay conscious. "No," he said, with too much force; the harsh word had drawn pain from his wound. "I would not watch you fall as Naevia watched Crixus."

Agron doubted Nasir would remember saying these things. Things that likened them to Naevia and Crixus, two people that held one another's hearts. But it was enough that he'd said it at all. "Compare me to a fucking Gaul," Agron returned, but his voice was tender. Nasir must have heard the tone, because the smile that came onto his face, though weak, was also knowing.

Both fell silent, and Nasir soon succumbed to sleep. Carefully, Agron dressed the wound with a length of cloth, and though he wanted to remain by Nasir's side until the group moved again, something called him from it: the fucking need to know exactly how the Syrian had come to this.

* * *

The surge of relief that had come with seeing Spartacus and the few others back and safe had diminished and had left anger in its wake. The gentleness with which he'd cared for Nasir was gone; Spartacus would get none of it. Agron's feet took him swiftly to where the Thracian stood, seemingly deep in conversation with Donar - but Agron pulled him bodily from it. Grabbed him by the arm and dragged him aside, turning him so they could look one another in the face.

There was a familiar fire inside of Agron, a temper he could do nothing to control, at least not then. Spartacus would need to bear the brunt of it before burning inferno diminished to embers. "So this is what fucking remains of your suicide mission," he spat, shoving at Spartacus only to advance on him again. Donar moved to hold Agron back, but was stilled when Spartacus lifted a hand.

"This is what remains," the Thracian replied, tone even. Agron was breathing more heavily, clenching his teeth, turning from side to side as if meaning to pace, but his body felt leaden - and when he raised an arm to wipe at his brow, he stopped. He stared. Nasir's blood stained the back of his hand. Spartacus was still speaking, but Agron could hardly hear him over the rushing in his own ears.

"The rest were lost in the tunnels," the so-called leader of the rebellion continued, "or fell in the woods as we traveled." The way he was saying it, so calmly, only infuriated Agron further. How could the man speak so evenly when half of their group, half of the men they'd freed from slavery, lay dead between where they stood and the mines? Finally, Agron shifted his gaze from his own hand to Spartacus's face. After, there was only one more moment of stillness before Agron let out a growl and rushed Spartacus, pushing him back against the trunk of a tall tree and pinning him there, his forearm pressed against the Thracian's throat.

Agron's voice was a low hiss that shook in anger. "I told you," he said. "Crixus would see all fall just to save Naevia. And so they fucking have." He pressed closer to Spartacus, but the man made no move to defend himself. "And so Nasir will, if his wound overtakes him." Agron paused and closed his eyes briefly, pressing his lips together and clenching his teeth hard enough for it to hurt. The thought was unbearable. If Nasir succumbed to his wound…

"The worst pain has already passed," Spartacus said, though his voice was strained now, with Agron pressing against his throat. "He is stronger than given credit for."

The assurance made Agron open his eyes again and look at the other man. He'd never meant to imply that Nasir was weak, only that wounds lesser had overcome greater men. Guilt was what would smother Agron's fury, and so it did; he felt guilt for having less faith in Nasir than deserved, and he remembered the guilt he felt in not going to the mines with the rest of them. Agron released Spartacus and stepped back, and when next he spoke it was with gentler tone, but anger remained on the edge of it. That anger could rise again quickly, if called forth. "Tell me how this happened," he said, lifting a hand to point an accusing, demanding finger at Spartacus.

And so all was revealed to Agron. The presence of the Roman soldiers at the mines. The battle in the tunnels and the losses there. Agron listened restlessly, waiting for the part of the tale that he cared most about. Spartacus no doubt hastened to it; there was much to tell, but what Agron needed to hear in that moment was the story of how Nasir had been wounded. Then he might find some peace, or enough of it to bring him back to himself.

"Romans again were upon us," Spartacus said. "Attacked. We fought with diminishing numbers. Nasir took up sword and risked life to save Mira." Agron made a noise in the back of his throat, though what it meant, he didn't know. Perhaps he valued Mira's life less than he did Nasir's, but there was also a part of him that felt proud of the Syrian. He'd fought with honor, it seemed. Spartacus continued. "That wound is what he suffered because of it." Suddenly, there was a hand gripping his forearm. Spartacus was calling Agron's attention to him, and the German's wandering eyes, previously lacking anything to focus on, leveled on the other man's face. "I killed the one responsible," Spartacus said. "Know that, brother."

It was some comfort. Agron turned toward Spartacus and gripped his forearm in return. There was apology now in his voice for his outburst. "Gratitude for returning him to me," he said, the words betraying his true feelings, as if the rest of his actions had not. But in saying this he implied that Nasir was his - and he did mean for the Syrian to be.

"There were some that would have left him behind," Spartacus confessed. "But Naevia spoke for him. She remembered the wounds given Crixus by Theokoles. Wounds survived."

Agron nodded. He too remembered. "And so you closed the wound with fire," he said, helping to finish the tale.

Spartacus nodded. "In a forest full of Romans. Even when burning sword pressed against open flesh, Nasir made no sound to betray our position." At that, Agron tightened his grip on Spartacus's arm, and a grim smile came onto his face. His Syrian had been strong. Stronger than most others would have been.

"Spartacus—" Agron started, but he was quickly cut off.

"Make no apologies to me for this," the Thracian said. "You acted out of concern for Nasir. There is nothing to be sorry for."

But about that, Spartacus was wrong. There was much to be sorry for, though Agron would hold tongue until opportunity arose again to speak what was in his heart. Not only an apology for this, but for dividing the group. For weakening them with his decision to move for Vesuvius instead of the mines. He would not soon forget the mistakes he'd made.

Spartacus clapped Agron on the shoulder. "Let us move far away from this place," he said, "and find a roof to put over our heads."

And so the two parted, both moving to rouse the others. They had some distance to walk still, and each step would take the group further from the horror of the mines and that unforgiving forest and closer to Neapolis, where they would find men to replace their fallen brothers.

* * *

Agron's kiss yet lingered on his lips, though the man was gone from his side. Nasir was still stunned. Pleasantly surprised. He'd longed for that kiss and had finally been able to taste it - but there was a bitterness to it. Agron's mission was a dangerous one, one that could easily claim his life, so there had been a 'goodbye' masked in that most tender of kisses. It had been the first time their lips had touched but it could have also been the last. The very idea made him feel as though his heart would stop in his chest.

Because when had he ever felt what he had in the moment Agron had leaned forward and claimed his lips? Freedom had never appealed to him before, but when the collar had been ripped from his throat, the opportunity for this - for tenderness and intimacy not tied to the feeling of obligation - had been opened to him. And now that all had been revealed to him, he wouldn't soon part with it. Not unless he was forced to. Not unless Agron was ripped from him too soon.

That his wound prevented him from accompanying Agron and the rest to the arena in their attempt to rescue Crixus further embittered Nasir. ' _This time you stay_ ,' Agron had said, ' _and I go_.' Now he knew what Agron must have suffered when Nasir had journeyed to the mines. His heart felt heavy, his stomach uneasy, and he lived every moment waiting to see the other man running to him again, waiting for that hand to reach out and touch his face and pull him into another kiss - one Nasir would return, if given the chance.

"You walk as if within a dream," came a voice, and Nasir lifted his head to find Naevia looking at him. His feet had taken him within the temple, toward where he'd lain as his wound was cared for. And by this woman's very hand.

"My mind is within the arena at Capua," he replied. Nasir curled an arm around himself; being pulled from his reverie had reminded him of the pain in his abdomen, made worse even by talking. But he made effort to ensure that pain didn't show on his face.

There was a sudden sadness in Naevia's dark eyes, but behind them, the smallest amount of hope. It was Crixus they moved to rescue, the man that held her heart and the man that had sacrificed himself for her safety. No doubt she was thinking of the very same place as Nasir. It was in that moment Nasir realized that the both of them wanted to be on those very sands, standing next to their men with swords in hand. Either of them would have given anything for that, anything for the chance of one more glance or exchanged smile before the might of Rome came down on them all. But instead they were left behind in this temple to wait and to worry and to wish for what was surely hopeless.

"My thoughts are with yours," Naevia answered gently, though there was no need. "Neither of us will find rest tonight. When sleep evades, perhaps we may find comfort in one another." That was a relief, somehow. Nasir offered a gentle smile that the woman returned with some difficulty, and soon she departed, no doubt to distract herself with something - anything - until it became impossible to do so.

In all of his life, Nasir had never found himself idle. Being a slave had meant a constant flurry of activity, constant orders to carry out. And even when he'd been freed, there had always been something within this rebellion to do. But now he was wounded. Now he had Spartacus himself telling Nasir he needed to rest, and the idea sat uncomfortably with him. Would he simply sit and will himself to heal while Agron and the rest were out risking their lives? No, he would not. He could not.

His sword had not been taken away from him, though it took him some time to find it in these new and unfamiliar surroundings. Consciousness had been fleeting before this; all he knew of the place, really, was the glimpses he'd gotten of the ceiling when the pain of his stab wound pulled him out of feverish sleep. Dragging himself out of the temple in an attempt to join those going to the arena had been the first time he'd stood on his own since the Roman soldier had run him through. Now was not the time for exploration, though. He had other plans.

Nasir's dark face was set and determined. He wouldn't be excluded from these missions. Not from this moment on, and he'd make sure of it. This wound wouldn't hold him back, wouldn't keep him from Agron's side or from Spartacus's, or from any of the other gladiators'. And Nasir felt himself one of them now. His flesh had been branded and both Spartacus and Agron had likened him to one of the brotherhood. He would live up to that no matter what pain it caused.

And it would cause pain. Only hefting the sword made him wince. But he ignored the throbbing and, with purposeful footsteps, made his way outside to where he could swing a sword freely. He recalled training with Agron once, what seemed like a lifetime ago. ' _Who do you fight so fiercely, little man?_ ' Agron had asked. The memory of it made him smile even as he positioned himself, sword arm outstretched and gladius held tightly in shaking hand. How defiant he'd been then. And how defiant he was now, risking further injury despite what he'd been told.

But they'd been wrong about him before. They'd thought him nothing but a wild dog, and now he stood among them as one that had sacrificed much and would yet sacrifice more if only asked.

Nasir lunged forward and thrust his sword at an invisible foe. A brief noise of pain passed his lips, but it was the last sound he made. Then, with every intention of proving he could help, could defend those he now cared about despite his wound, he trained into the night, and as he trained he thought he could hear Agron's voice in his ear. ' _Who do you fight so fiercely, little man?_ ' was that question again, and Nasir knew his answer better now than he had when he was first asked. ' _Any that would threaten harm upon you_.'

* * *

The temple was filled with light. Nasir had to narrow his eyes, lift a hand to shield them, because it was the kind of sunlight he hadn't seen for some time. For days it had only been shadows from the canopies of trees, thick fog that let through no friendly rays of sun, and then a dark room where his wound had been tended. His wound - he looked down and dropped his hand to touch it, but where it had once been there was only smooth skin. His dark gaze wandered; this wasn't the temple as he remembered it. Underneath him was a soft bed draped in white cloth, glowing faintly in the light. He stood, and the stone floor underneath his bare feet was warm.

"Naevia," he called, the name echoing. He had become accustomed to having her near. She was his only comfort, with Agron gone to Capua. But where was she? "What news? Have any returned?" There was no answer from Naevia's lips. But a voice did sound. A voice he recognized. One that made his heart jump in his chest.

Hands accompanied that voice, touching his shoulders from behind. He stilled underneath them, dark eyes wide. "Nasir." It was only his name, but the tone was unmistakable. Those hands slid down his arms and held tight, using that grip to pull Nasir back against a taller, solid body. Though there was strength behind that touch, it was still tender. "I would have cut through every last Roman shit in this world to return to you," the voice continued, the soft words whispering over Nasir's ear.

Nasir felt out of breath at the surge of relief that flooded him. He had dared to hope for this moment, but part of him had doubted its coming. He wanted to speak, wanted to say the man's name as sweetly as his own had been uttered, but he could not find voice. "What, did someone rob you of your tongue?" the man said, and finally a smile came onto Nasir's face. Now that it had found its place there, it wouldn't soon disappear.

' _Agron_ ,' he wanted to whisper or sigh or cry out, though the name never rose to his lips. But no matter; strong hands turned him around and he lifted his gaze to look upon the gladiator, and that sight alone would have robbed him of speech if he hadn't already been silent. The man was bathed in the softly glowing light that surrounded them and he seemed something from a dream or from another world. Agron reached out and touched Nasir's face, cupped his cheek as he always did, and then leaned forward to steal a kiss from his waiting lips.

It was much like the one they'd shared before Agron had disappeared into the night, making his way toward the arena. The kiss was fleeting and gentle. Sweet and a taste of something Nasir had never had before. Though it was like that first kiss, it held no less excitement than that first one had; his heartbeat still quickened and he found it difficult to do anything but stand and receive tender lips.

But when it was done, there was no voice calling for Agron to leave him again. There was only silence, occasionally broken by the sound of their mingled breathing. Because Agron was still close. He still leaned forward, bent at the waist to bring himself down to Nasir's level. When the Syrian opened his eyes, he found blue ones staring back at him. That gaze was a searching one. A questioning one. Agron spoke again. "Won't you give me welcome?" he asked.

Nasir didn't know how to respond. Never before had he not been _ordered_ to do something - but instead, he was being asked. He was being given a choice. Agron was not his dominus, a man that Nasir had had to obey. They were both free men and Nasir could decide for himself what he wanted. _Wanted_. That too was a new concept. And what did he want? As if it wasn't obvious, as if it hadn't always been obvious, ever since he'd met Agron's eyes and revealed to him his true name.

"Nasir—" Agron began, but no more words passed between his lips. No, they were otherwise occupied in the kiss Nasir pressed to them. And how the Syrian _moved_ in the kiss. Where before he'd been unable to even respond for the shock that froze him at being kissed at all, he now leaned into the kiss, lured Agron into it, savored it for everything that it was. His stomach flipped and he felt weightless, grounded only by the hand still cupping his cheek and the arm that now wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer.

The first taste of Agron's tongue sent a thrill through Nasir, one that parted his lips in a low gasp, and the gladiator took full advantage of that. Agron deepened the kiss and a desperation rose in the both of them, the need to take this further and further, to leave nothing unexplored.

Soon, Agron pulled back from the kiss. His breathing was harsh as he leaned his forehead on the other man's, eyes closed. The hand on Nasir's face shifted, slid back into his hair and then gripped tightly - not enough to hurt, but enough for Nasir to feel it and to react with another low sound in the back of his throat. Agron chased that noise; he used Nasir's hair to gently pull his head back and reveal long neck before ducking down and pressing kiss-bruised lips against warm skin. It pulled another groan from him.

And that seemed to spur Agron on. Soon, Nasir was pushed backwards until his back hit a wall. If he hadn't already been breathless, he would have been then, but already his breathing was fast, labored, difficult to catch. The kiss had done that to him. Still, Agron had his face buried against the Syrian's throat, though his lips began to drag up, tilting Nasir's head back again. The mouth was moving so slowly, so tortuously slowly, in such contrast to how fast he'd suddenly found himself pinned.

Briefly, as he waited for those lips to find destination, he wondered why he felt no pain. Surely he wasn't healed enough for this. Surely he should be doubled over and holding his side - but did he remember his skin being unmarred, untouched by Roman sword—? Those thoughts were chased away. Agron's lips had reached Nasir's chin and then, finally, he was lost in another kiss.

And now, with his body pinned to the wall, he felt the weight of Agron against him. One of the gladiator's legs slipped between his own, pressed against him in a way that made the air rush from him lungs. He was desperate for that contact. So desperate that he lifted his own leg to hook around the one holding him there to the wall and then rolled his hips, slowly, to rub himself against the other man. Agron only encouraged it; he dropped a hand to grab tightly onto the flesh of Nasir's thigh and moved even closer, ensured there wasn't even the smallest amount of space between their two bodies.

"Nasir," Agron groaned into the Syrian's mouth. And then again. " _Nasir_." And again—

" _Nasir!_ "

He sat up quickly, the abrupt movement sending a jolt of pain through his body. That pain chased away the sound of Agron's voice and the feeling of his body and the taste of his lips and left Nasir cold in the dark temple. There was no bright light, no soft bed, no returned gladiator to call him into strong, whole arms. The realization hurt him more than the wound that still very much marred his dark skin.

"Nasir." His name was called one more time before Naevia rounded the corner. He stood, arm curled around himself, and it was clear in his eyes that he feared the worst. Were they all dead? Had no one returned? Had only some of their number? Had Agron fallen? "Word has reached us from Capua," Naevia said, and she sounded out of breath. "The arena burns."

The Syrian let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. It was according to plan. There was no way for them to know, yet, whether or not their men survived. Nasir sat back down, clenching his teeth against the throbbing of his injury. How he wished to sink back into that dream, to imagine the welcome he might give Agron, but his mind wouldn't allow pleasant thought now. Not while he was waking.

The only thought he harbored was that he would either see Agron soon or never again.


	3. Chapter 3

The group of them rushed into the sanctuary, their steps fast upon the winds of victory. As soon as they entered, all those around them broke into sound, some whispers and some cheers, some questioning and others too shocked to do anything but gasp. "What news?" a man called, and Agron bounded up the stairs and turned to address all those with their faces turned toward him.

"The arena is burned to the fucking ground," he called out, and was met with voices raised high in celebration. "With many Roman among the ashes!" He raised a fist, pumped it in the air. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and he felt really and truly alive. They were a new kind of champions of the arena, having brought the entire fucking thing to the earth.

"What of Rhaskos?" a voice asked, and Agron's gaze shifted to her. Chadara. She'd lain with the Gaul on several occasions. Agron felt no affection toward the fallen man, but he had been a gladiator, and among them, it meant something.

Donar answered the woman's question. "He fell as all men should."

"With sword in hand a blood upon his thoughts," Agron continued, nodding. It would be little comfort to her, who knew nothing of their brotherhood, but not even that could bring him down from this high.

And then something arrived to take him higher. He heard the other man's voice before eyes found adoring face. "You suffer no wound," Nasir said, and Agron's face split nearly in two with the grin that came to his features. He turned and approached the Syrian, his gaze sweeping over the smaller body. His bandages were fresh; the wound was still being tended to. It would still take some time to heal.

"The Gods favor me, little man," Agron returned, stopping only inches away from Nasir. More than the joy of victory surged through his veins now; it was the return to Nasir that lightened his heart and made triumph all the sweeter.

The smile on Nasir's face would have melted the hearts of greater men than Agron. "Call me that again and they shall turn from you," came the Syrian's laughing reply. Agron would wait no longer. He took Nasir's face in his hands and pressed a kiss to the lips lifted and waiting for him. Better than watching the arena at Capua was this kiss and the way Nasir leaned into it and how happy he seemed to have Agron back safe and sound.

They were the both of them reluctant to pull away from the kiss, but soon their lips parted. "Come," Nasir said, sliding his hand over Agron's arm to take his hand. "Tell me all that came to pass in the arena." And, with that, Agron allowed himself to be pulled along by Nasir, taken to some corner of the sanctuary where they could speak. Soon, they were settled on the stone floor with a blanket underneath them, a wall at their backs, and a lantern burning near. There, in the lamplight, Agron could do nothing to keep the smile from his face.

"All of our other victories pale in comparison," he said, and in his mind's eye was the fall of the arena. He would tell it to Nasir in as much detail as his limited words could provide. "It all collapsed in fire and smoke. They brought the arena down around us as we fought on the sands one last time."

It had been strange, being in the arena again. The last time he'd fought there had been beside his brother, when they'd still been enslaved. And to stand there once more as a free man and to be part of the group responsible for leveling it… it was a feeling he wouldn't soon forget. Agron's expression was a faraway one as he tried to bring forth more imagery to give Nasir so the Syrian might know exactly what it had been like.

But Nasir, it seemed, had heard enough. He man stirred from his seat beside Agron and slid into the gladiator's lap. Agron was surprised by the sudden and unabashed move, though it certainly wasn't an unwelcome one. "I worried for you," he said, reaching out and tentatively pressing his hands against Agron's chest. Nasir's fingers explored Agron's collarbone, traced the scar on the left one. Agron could only watch the man's face. "I worried the arena would claim you as it hadn't been able before."

Agron sat forward to wrap one arm around Nasir and pull him closer. He lifted his other hand to cup the other man's jaw. "You think I would leave you with one kiss and nothing else to speak of?" he asked in a whisper only for Nasir's ears. He slid his hand to the back of Nasir's neck and pulled him into another kiss, one more heated than the previous. The kiss said that he was alive. He was real and whole and surviving only for the touch of Nasir's lips.

It only took one small, short noise passing from Nasir's mouth to his own to call forth desire barely concealed. He would have more from this embrace. He would give Nasir everything, if only so the Syrian could have it to hold if ever they were parted. And it would be something to warm Agron himself, if ever he found himself cold.

Both of Agron's arms slid around Nasir now and tightened so that nothing would separate them, not even the air itself. But then he was given pause; another sound escaped Nasir, but this time it was one of pain. In his passion, Agron had forgotten the wound the Syrian had suffered. The kiss ended abruptly, though they had barely parted, so that when Agron spoke his lips brushed the other man's.

"You are not yet well enough," he said softly. His grip loosened, though he still held Nasir close. "I would have you rest a little while longer."

A frustrated noise answered. "This wound continues to keep me from you," Nasir said. "It kept me from taking up the sword with you and now from feeling you warm and next to me."

The frustration in Nasir only made Agron grin. Perhaps it was an arrogant grin, one brought on by the knowledge that Nasir was just as eager for him as he was for Nasir. Agron again took the other man's face in both of his hands and lifted it so they could look at one another. "It will be well worth the wait," he promised, and leaned forward to brush a chaste kiss over the dark scowl that had come onto Nasir's face.

The Syrian was quick to reply. "And if during all of our waiting one of us is stolen from this world?"

Agron pressed his forehead against Nasir's. "Then the one taken will wait for the other at the gates of the next." And it was a promise sealed with yet another kiss.

* * *

Agron was exhausted. Their assault at the arena had not been long ago, and since then he'd had no rest. He'd just been up half the night discussing Neapolis with Spartacus and the others, too. Finally, he would find peace, would drift into unconsciousness and dream of the victories they'd amassed, and the rewards that had followed. Dark-skinned, Syrian rewards. The very idea brought a smile to his face.

It wasn't long after he'd lain down that Agron fell asleep, but then not long after that he found himself roused. By what, he wasn't sure, but perhaps it had been the kiss he'd been dreaming of. A kiss to his jaw that he could swear he still felt, even in consciousness. Inhaling deeply, Agron stretched his limbs out, and as he did, he felt hands slide up over his stomach and chest. Familiar hands.

"Nasir," he said in a low voice, though he didn't yet open his eyes. The hands were followed by the weight of the other man's body settling on top of him. His own body was warm still from sleep and made warmer by Nasir's nearness, and he could have fallen asleep again, just like that. But it seemed his Syrian had other things in mind.

"Thoughts of you keep me from sleep," Nasir whispered. He was being bold. Very bold. A boldness come from where? Agron wondered. But he was a happy witness to it. His blue eyes opened and searched for the Syrian in the dark. Though he could not see him, Agron certainly could feel, and there was warm breath and a soft kiss on his neck. The gladiator tilted his head back to accommodate it.

Words followed that kiss. "I would taste every last inch of you," Nasir said, and it sent a thrill through Agron. To have that hot mouth on him - to feel slick tongue - only thinking of it made his blood rush faster through his veins, and all toward one particular destination.

"I thought we agreed that you have yet to recover from injury," Agron replied with some difficulty. Nasir's lips had traveled up to one of Agron's ears, and it was there he felt the first sweeping of the Syrian's tongue. Agron slid his arms around the other man despite himself and took in a slightly shaking breath.

Nasir's next words were whispered into Agron's ear. "The night you left," he said, "I dreamed of your return." It was the cover of darkness that made him so fearless, and pure desire that drove him forward. "I dreamed you had me against the wall. Pressing close." The Syrian's mouth brushed Agron's jaw, drawing nearer to his lips. "Let us make dream reality."

The sweetly spoken words almost convinced Agron. The gladiator dropped his hands to grasp the flesh of Nasir's ass just as the Syrian pushed insistent lips to his own. Exhaustion had fled him and in its place was the hunger that sprang forth whenever he set his eyes on Nasir, whenever the other man was close, whenever he stole into Agron's thoughts. A hunger all the more keenly felt when Nasir began to move on top of him, pressing his hips forward against Agron's.

It was that friction that pulled Agron's lips away from Nasir's. He let out a breathy laugh, the hands on the other man's ass helping to start a slow, rocking rhythm between them. "Fucking Syrians," he whispered, struggling to keep his voice level. "I knew they were all treacherous. Stealing to me in the night." It was difficult to be clever with the other man's body rolling against his own. Near impossible.

Nasir was intent on purpose. He made no reply to Agron's words, but spoke to further his own cause. "My heart is yours," he whispered, almost _whimpered_ into Agron's mouth. "Take the rest of me."

It was the tone of voice that told Agron just how far this would go if it went unchecked. Fuck if he'd ever exhibited self-control in anything else in his entire life, but now was the time for it. Abruptly, he flipped the two of them over so that Nasir was the one on his back on the floor, and Agron was the one on top.

"When I take you," he practically purred, propping himself up on his arms over Nasir, whose dark eyes were now wide, "it will be long." He leaned closer. "It will take all of your strength to last even halfway. Strength you have not yet regained." Agron shifted, reached down to grab onto one of Nasir's thighs and wrap that leg around him. A pained noise, no doubt because of his injury, escaped the Syrian, but it was followed by another sweeter sound soon after.

And now the tables were turned. Where before Agron had been at Nasir's mercy, now the Syrian was the one who would have to suffer. At first, the movement was imperceptible. Barely anything. But soon it became clear just what Agron was doing. Thrusting forward. Pulling back. Mimicking what he would do to the body underneath him when the time came for it. Nasir lifted his hands to grab at the gladiator, to drag his hands helplessly over the planes of his shoulders and chest all while trying in vain to catch his breath.

"Will you not wait for things promised?" Agron whispered, leaning down so the words were spoken against lips parted to make way for desperate noises.

It took Nasir a moment to gather his senses enough to reply. "You drive me to the edge of desire only to dangle me there and never let me fall," he gasped. But he wasn't the only one who balanced on that precipice.

"You brought this on yourself, little man," Agron said, dragging his lips over Nasir's jaw to find his ear, just as the Syrian had done to him only moments before. "I want you to think of this when you bring yourself to completion," he continued, and though it was worded as a suggestion, there was a hint of an order in it. "Do you remember when you watched me touch myself? Thought of you moved me to that."

How badly he wanted the roles to be reversed, but if he saw Nasir with his hand wrapped around his length there would be little he'd be able to do to restrain himself. So he would send the Syrian away, for now, and find relief in his own mind as he had before.

"Go now," Agron said, leaning down to steal a kiss from Nasir's still-gasping lips. "Find some secluded place and then find sleep. And take thoughts of me with you."

Agron moved to get off of Nasir, but the man reached up and pulled him into a rough, desperate kiss. As quickly as it had begun, though, it ended, and the Syrian was gone like a shadow in the night. Agron settled onto the floor again but this time, sleep didn't come so easily to him. This time, he had to take deep breaths, to urge his body to stop its thrumming, to make attempt to chase away lingering thoughts of everything exchanged between the two of them.

Nasir's wound wouldn't heal fast enough but when finally it did, Agron would make good on every last promise he'd made. And then some.

* * *

Agron's mouth was slowly filling with blood. Heat rushed through him. He wanted nothing more than to push Spartacus aside and break the fucking Gaul's face, but he stayed his aggression, for now. He marked it in his mind, though; this was the last time Crixus would ever walk away from raising a hand to strike him. "I move for Neapolis," Agron snapped, meeting Spartacus's gaze. "And thoughts of swelling rank with better men." Those surrounding the scene whispered to one another as Agron pushed through them, making his way into the temple and away from prying eye and wagging tongue.

He didn't have to turn to know that Nasir followed him like a shadow.

Those in his wake moved aside, no doubt seeing the fury in his expression. A small room toward the back of the building served as sanctuary, a private place he could properly let out the anger rising inside of him. A cry of frustration escaped lips covered in blood and he swung his fist, felt a release when it collided with unyielding stone. His hand suffered for the impact, knuckles tearing open, but the pain was secondary. Rage masked all other feelings.

"That _fucking_ Gaul," he spat, turning wild eyes on Nasir and pointing toward the doorway, as if at Crixus himself, "isn't worth his weight in _piss_ and _shit_." He turned away from Nasir and flexed his fingers, curling them into a fist meaning to strike the wall again, but a hand wrapping around his wrist stopped him. He whirled around and met the Syrian's dark gaze but soon looked away. Agron found himself unable to look on Nasir's face with such bitterness in his heart. None of it was turned toward this man.

"Calm yourself," Nasir said. He lifted his free hand and slid the pad of his thumb over Agron's bloodied bottom lip. "Do not waste your fury on a wall that will feel none of it and only injure you."

"No more injury than I would have gotten parting Crixus's teeth from fucking skull," Agron replied, glaring in the direction of the courtyard.

Nasir made no argument, but instead gently eased Agron to a nearby table for him to lean against. The gladiator went willingly; he couldn't deny Nasir anything, not even in the throes of this enmity. A cut of cloth was removed from the Syrian's person and lifted to touch Agron's mouth, cleaning it of blood.

Even as Nasir tended to him, he continued railing against the Gaul. "And _that_ is a man Spartacus places trust in," Agron said incredulously. A bitter laugh followed. "He cares for nothing but himself and his woman."

The hand that held cleansing cloth faltered, but only briefly. Not briefly enough for it to go unnoticed, though. Agron finally looked at Nasir, his gaze softening. "Nasir—" he began. The Syrian spoke to interrupt him.

"Is there no one you would have braved the mines for? Or sacrificed yourself to save, facing execution in the arena as result?" he asked, and it seemed difficult for him to do so. He sounded so very unsure. "Your brother, Duro, if he yet lived?" This time it was Nasir who couldn't meet Agron's eye.

The words Agron had spoken to Crixus came back to him. ' _To set eyes again upon your heart_ ,' he'd said. ' _I understand now why a man would risk all for such a thing_.' And yet here he sat, condemning Crixus for just that.

Agron sighed, reached out and took Nasir's face in his hands, though he was careful with the bloodied one, not wanting to soil the dark skin beneath his fingertips. "Do not ask me," he said softly, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the other man's. "For it will mark me a hypocrite and liar."

Nasir would heed Agron's words, that the gladiator knew. But he would answer the question posed, no matter what it branded him. For they were words he should not have had to speak to Nasir; the Syrian should have already known his answer. And yet there was doubt. And that Agron couldn't stand, more than anything else. "If you were ever taken from me," he whispered, "I would burn down the whole of Rome to find you back in my arms." He pulled back slightly and lifted Nasir's head, his grip tight enough to call the man's attention. His next word were spoken more fiercely than the last. "I would cut down every last man that stood between us. You must know this."

Dark eyes fled Agron's intense gaze, though there was a ghost of a smile curling the corners of those lips. "I would do the same for you."

It hurt to grin, but grin Agron did. "You would do worse, little man."

"I warned you not to call me that," Nasir returned playfully, looking up at Agron. "You should be kinder to the one that cares for you." With that, Nasir reached up and took the hand Agron had broken open against the wall. With the other hand, he picked up a clay jug of water on the table at Agron's back and poured it over the split knuckles, following with cloth to clean the wounds.

Time passed in silence. Every once in a while, Nasir would glance up at Agron to find the gladiator's eyes on his face. Heat rose in the Syrian's cheeks and reddened them, and it was a sweet thing to look upon.

But soon Nasir felt the need to break the silence, though Agron would have been content simply looking at him for at least a little while longer. "Crixus struck first," he observed, still gently wiping at Agron's knuckles. "What words passed between you to ignite him so?"

"I offered comfort he would not receive," Agron replied, his tone clipped at speaking of the man again.

Nasir paused, and once again seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Perhaps you should grant him forgiveness," he said, and was quick to continue to stay the protest rising in Agron. "I have heard Naevia is not the same woman she once was. It must weight heavy on his heart."

This was where balance was struck. In Nasir was this caring that Agron sometimes lacked. While the gladiator was not absent heart, he noticed less on a smaller scale and instead looked to bigger pictures, at least where most things were concerned. Or all things, save Nasir. The Syrian, however, could always see the suffering of one man in an entire crowd of suffering men, and feel pity for it.

Agron could admit to being wrong, as had been proved many times before. "She suffered much," he conceded. "To find her so changed must be… difficult." Exactly what she had gone through, Agron didn't know, but he could imagine. At the hands of the Romans, nearly anyone could be broken. Surely someone as gentle as Naevia had once been. Agron hadn't known her at the house of Batiatus, but she had been a slave with status, surely used to treatment better than most. And then she had been ripped away from that. And now Crixus found her a victim of countless crimes against body and mind, and nothing would be able to satisfy his vengeance. To that, Agron could relate.

The wound to both flesh and pride had been mended, and Agron stood wholly himself again thanks to Nasir's healing touch. "Only you could make me feel for a fucking Gaul," the gladiator said, shaking his head. He flexed the fingers on his injured hand and found them only a bit stiff, and the open air stung the cuts, but there would be no lasting damage.

"If only I'd known you were so easily swayed before," Nasir returned, a smile coming onto his face and brightening it. "I might have taken advantage." Such a teasing tone, such a challenging one. Agron raised both eyebrows and returned that smile, then leaned forward to claim Nasir's lips in a kiss.

"I may let you take advantage," he said, pulling away, but not for long. "One day." And he kissed the other man again, to chase away the memory of what had just happened. Tasting Nasir was the best kind of forgetting.

* * *

The crowd in the courtyard slowly dispersed. Not many heads turned toward the body that lay bloodied in the dirt, and those who did looked upon it with disdain. Only one mourned the woman's passing, and he knelt beside her, holding her limp and lifeless hand in his own.

The only pity Agron felt was for Nasir. That Chadara had been slain did not move him, but to see the Syrian so affected hurt his heart, as if he felt the other man's pain with him. As if their hearts were tethered, and to pull on one was to drag the other along, too. [[MORE]]

Spartacus stepped forward and put his hand on Nasir's shoulder, though the Syrian didn't turn at the touch. "You were her friend," he said. "It is for you to decide what will be her grave." With that, Spartacus stepped back and turned to look at Agron. The German nodded, only once; the gesture said that he would take care of this, would take care of Nasir. That seemed to satisfy Spartacus, because he then took his leave, Mira following close behind.

They were soon alone. None wanted to be near the body, lest they be infected by her treachery. Nasir had said nothing after his cry of the woman's name; he only knelt, head bowed and forehead pressed against the pale hand he held. The two must have been close, though Agron had heard nothing of their relationship. He'd never asked, and in that moment, he regretted it. Mira had said Chadara thought she had no place among them, and perhaps a word from Agron would have made her feel differently.

But although there was a part of him that harbored guilt, there was another that felt she had gotten exactly what she deserved. A traitor had no place among them. The rebellion's strength was a tenuous thing and would have easily broken, had she gotten her way.

Agron knew not how to comfort Nasir. Though the gladiator had felt loss, though he knew how it weighed heavy on the heart, his loss had been that of a brother. Nothing he knew compared to that - nothing except, perhaps, those moments that Nasir himself had seemed close to death, after he'd returned from the mines. But certainly not the loss of a friend, many of which had fallen to the Romans during the rebellion. Nasir seemed to be taking this harder than Agron himself might have, but then again, the gladiator had to remind himself that Nasir never closed himself off to an emotion. Instead he felt it in its entirety, be it love or hate or loyalty. And now mourning.

"Nasir," Agron said gently, kneeling behind the other man and placing both hands on his shoulders. At first, there was no reaction from the Syrian, but then his voice sounded, though he remained still.

"I could have prevented this," Nasir said. His voice was muffled against Chadara's hand but in it Agron could still hear choked sadness.

Leaning forward, Agron pressed his lips against Nasir's shoulder. "No, little man," he said against that dark skin. "She chose her own path." How could the Syrian think himself responsible for this? He, who was now trusted friend to Spartacus. He, who had risked life countless times for the sake of the rebellion. If ever there had been a treacherous bone in his body - when they had first liberated him, perhaps - he had now parted from it. Nasir could have done nothing to steer Chadara to betrayal.

But Nasir would find a way to blame himself. It was only human. When Duro had died, Agron had agonized over the things he could have done to stop it happening. He still did. This was what Nasir suffered. "I found my place," he said, lifting his head slowly, but only to look upon Chadara's face, lovely even in death. He reached out and touched her cheek, a lock of blonde hair that had fallen over it. "I found it beside you and never once looked back. Not to her."

"Disloyalty like hers could not have come from this one thing," Agron entreated, moving so he could face Nasir and try to catch his eye. "It was always in her heart. Open her chest and find it carved there." Agron extended his hand and slid his fingers gently over the back of Nasir's neck. That drew the Syrian's gaze to him, finally, and Agron saw that his eyes shone with tears yet unshed. "This rebellion was never a cause she believed," he said softly. None among them who truly supported their cause would resort to this, no matter what else befell them. It simply wasn't possible. Not in Agron's eyes.

Nasir turned away again, closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw, still holding fast onto Chadara's hand. Agron had no question as to how long they would stay by her side; if it was the rest of the night, he would remain, only for Nasir. Not for the slave girl whose skin had already lost its color in the moonlight, but for the one that mourned her.

Silence passed between them. It was only broken after a few moments, when Nasir let out a long, shaking breath. And then he spoke, finally. "She was the first I truly knew to fall," he said, and Agron was shocked to find that true. The disaster in the mines had claimed the lives of only gladiators, fighting men that Nasir had hardly exchanged words with, while the freed slaves all followed Agron to Vesuvius. It was no wonder Nasir felt this loss so keenly.

"It's a difficult thing," Agron started, shifting his gaze to look at Chadara, "seeing the life flee from one you held close to your heart."

"How do I bear it?" Nasir asked, his tone heartrendingly desperate. He'd never had to suffer this, not while he was a slave. He may have been in chains but he'd never had someone ripped from him as Chadara had just been. Now he had freedom, but with it, the chance that he would lose absolutely everything.

Agron reached out and cupped Nasir's cheek in his hand, turning the other man's face toward him. "You let me help shoulder weight," he answered.

It was what Nasir needed to hear in that moment. Chadara's hand slipped from his and he slumped to the side, into Agron's waiting embrace. Nasir yet faced the dead woman's body but leaned into the gladiator, whose arms wrapped around the smaller body and held securely. Agron leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to Nasir's temple before touching his forehead to the very spot, and when his lips found that dark skin again it was at the corner of Nasir's eye, where more tears were gathering.

"Only tell me what you need," he whispered, "and see it done."

Nasir's hands lifted and clasped tightly onto the forearm wrapped around his front, and the next words he spoke were even more despairing than the last. "Don't let them have her thrown away like a piece of waste," he begged. A blade through Agron's heart would have hurt less than it did to witness such pain in the man he loved.

"We will see her into the next life with respect," Agron promised. Respect she didn't deserve for the falseness inside of her, but that was an opinion he would keep to himself.

"Good," Nasir whispered, bowing his head and resting it on Agron's arm. "Gratitude." The Syrian sighed, and it seemed some of the weight truly did leave him in that breath. Agron was grateful for it.

And so the night passed, the only witnesses to Chadara's wake Nasir, the gladiator that held him, and the stars above.


	4. Chapter 4

"We move to Neapolis soon," Agron said in a hushed, though excited voice. He was sitting across from Nasir and the both of them held bowls filled with food. They often ate together, sitting side by side, and found themselves lost in conversation as they filled their bellies.

Nasir was glad for the happiness in Agron; more than just wanting the man who held his heart to find joy, he was also grateful for good news. A distraction from grief. The loss of Chadara and her betrayal still hung heavy on him, like a weight hanging 'round his neck - though that wasn't to say that he was alone in bearing it. He had a certain gladiator's arms to fall to when he needed them. But still, good news like the news Agron bore was more than welcome. Nasir lended ear eagerly.

"To swell ranks," Nasir added, remembering words spoken by Agron before. Such a thing was much needed after the disaster at the mines. They'd lost many men, fighting men that knew how to wield sword and take life with ease. Some still remained, but not enough to take on the armies of Rome, should they come down upon them.

Agron nodded, taking a bite of his food. He spoke through it. "And these will be men with none of the shortcomings some among us possess." Nasir didn't need to look to see that Agron's blue eyes now looked upon Crixus, who sat not far away with Naevia. The tension between the two men was practically palpable. It was felt by all, especially those closest to the two gladiators. Nasir and Naevia had, on occasion, spoke of that tension, and wished it gone. But both Agron and Crixus, it seemed, were far too stubborn for that. No change appeared imminent.

"How can you be sure?" Nasir asked, drawing Agron's attention back to him. It would be better to distract him from thought against Crixus. "Could you not liberate a boat from Gallia?" That was where the German's prejudice bore down most firmly, and Nasir knew such a thing would be the worst possible for Agron to find in the ports of Neapolis.

But there was a small, secret grin on the gladiator's face, one that Nair immediately took notice of. The Syrian narrowed his dark eyes, tilted his head to the side in question. For a moment, Agron only continued to smile, occupying himself with eating while making it so very obvious that he had something hidden inside. Obvious to Nasir, at least, who had no trouble reading the face he so often found himself studying. A fact well-known by the gladiator.

"What do you keep concealed from me?" Nasir asked, his tone playful. He had both eyebrows raised and a knowing expression on his face. As if this man would be able to keep a secret from him. Impossible. A fact soon proved true when Agron scooted closer to him, their knees bumping together. The gladiator leaned forward and gestured for Nasir to do the same, and before any secrets were revealed, Agron stole a kiss from Nasir's nearby lips. As every other kiss shared between them, it caused a fluttering in Nasir's chest, but not even that would distract him from purpose. The Syrian lifted his free hand and grabbed Agron by the chin, pulling his own lips just out of reach. "You make attempt to ply me with kisses," Nasir scolded, "but I won't be turned from path. Tell me."

Agron glanced around them quickly to make sure there were none listening in, but why should they? He and Nasir were as they normally were, together and locked in intimate conversation accompanied by touches just as affectionate. There was no danger of them being overheard if they kept their voices low enough.

"The ship we are to liberate," the gladiator said, eyes locked on Nasir's darker ones. "It is filled to the brim with those of my country." He couldn't contain another smile, this one wide and bright. " _German_. And they'll be slaves no more. They'll join our cause."

"How do you know this?" Nasir asked in a whisper, surprised at the information revealed. No wonder Agron was so happy! When had he last encountered one of his own kind? Had there been anyone since his own brother, who was now lost? Nasir felt happy for the gladiator, so very happy - and yet there was something he feared. He wouldn't voice it yet. Agron still had more to tell.

He spoke quickly, as if eager to finally have another soul to reveal all to. "Coin was dropped in Neapolis to attain the dock's schedule," Agron said, and Nasir nodded. He remembered the details of that particular mission. "Along with that I learned what each arriving ship will hold." Nasir had never seen Agron so lively, so filled with enthusiasm. His face was bright and his eyes nearly danced with it. Such life thought of kinship and reminders of home could bring to this man.

Though Nasir tried to show nothing but support of all this, there was the briefest expression of uncertainty on his features: an expression that Agron did not miss.

"What troubles you, little man?" he asked, the light in his eyes replaced with something darker and concerned. Nasir hated to be the one to extinguish that light. Initially, he waved his hand and occupied himself with his food. But only a moment underneath Agron's intent stare and he was broken. Nasir would answer the other man's question, as he had no strength to deny him.

He picked his words carefully. "I only hope," he started, speaking slowly. "…that you will not prefer their company." He was embarrassed to speak those words. It always seemed that all were sure of Agron's affection for him while he himself doubted it, once in a while. And it was no fault of Agron's, of course. It was only the fault of Nasir's insecurity.

Agron's bowl was abandoned, and battle-roughened hands were gentle as they plucked Nasir's food from his grasp and set it aside. The gladiator's eyes drew Nasir's to them, and neither gaze wavered as Agron spoke. "Kinsmen they may be," he assured, "but none will hold my heart as you do." Both of Agron's hands were extended. Nasir did not hesitate to place his own hands in them, and his dark-skinned fingers were lifted to receive tender kisses from lips through which passed the tenderest words. Nasir's own lips curled in a smile. All it took was that one promise to return the warmth to his heart and to chase away worry.

"I make no promises for my own heart," he said, voice teasing. "Who is to say I won't find myself another German to cause pulse to race and sense to leave me?"

A short snort of amusement escaped Agron, and his hands tightened on Nasir's fingers. One hard tug, and the Syrian landed in the gladiator's lap, and both their bowls of food were sacrificed in the movement, clattering to the stone underneath. "I would burn through the forests of my own country before letting you fall into another's arms," he growled, though not even the gruff tone could keep the laugh from his voice. What they spoke of was impossible. No other would ever be able to lay claim on Nasir's affection for Agron, nor the other way around. That much had always been clear.

The kiss Nasir pressed against the other man's cheek seemed to calm him, and the embrace the Syrian rested in loosened. Instead of being pinned against Agron's strong chest as before, he was now cradled. It was a safe place. A comfortable and familiar place. It was a place, he assured himself, that he would still be able to find even with the ranks of freed slaved set to bursting with the Germans.

Agron turned his head quickly to take from Nasir yet another kiss, this one just a little deeper than the last. "My kin will all know of what you mean to me," he said against the Syrian's lips. Agron's eyes were so very bright once more when he pulled back to look at Nasir. "And they will treat you as family."

Nasir's heart swelled. He could remember no family. The concept was as foreign to him as all the customs of the German, but the idea that he could find such a thing at Agron's side moved him. Gently, Nasir took Agron's face in his hands, and their smiles mirrored one another. "Then I look forward to their arrival," he said, "and to greeting them as brothers." As with everything else between them, the words were sealed with another kiss.

* * *

Ground disappeared quickly underfoot as Nasir hastened toward Agron. "You have done the impossible," he said, a smile playing across his lips. He felt a warmth inside of him, a joy too great to contain, and it was so every time Agron returned to him. Each mission the gladiator undertook could be his last, a fact that haunted Nasir from the moment Agron stepped from the sanctuary until the very second he came back and Nasir could once more look upon the face he so loved.

The gods had not seen it fit to steal Agron from this world yet, a blessing Nasir was reminded of as the gladiator stepped forward and swept him up into a kiss. That smile - Nasir would never tire of seeing it. It graced Agron's features, though, for reason more than just his safe return. At his back were men, ones that would double their numbers. These men must have been the German Agron had spoken of so excitedly the day before. The gladiator's kin.

One stepped forward, reached out and turned Agron toward him. He was a mountain of a man and seemed twice Nasir's own height and girth, and when he spoke, it was with a deep, growling voice and in a tongue the Syrian could not understand. Agron replied in the same language.

Nasir was fascinated by it. Before now, Agron had only ever asserted his culture in his hatred of the Gauls. Now he was among his people, those whose customs and language he had known all his life. This changed something in the gladiator. Perhaps he was more himself - but Nasir would hold fast to the idea that Agron was never more himself than when with him, their limbs tangled in the dark and their voices low in intimate conversation. It could have instead been that, among his kin, Agron was simply more the man he'd been forced to leave behind.

The new men's humor was contagious. They spoke among themselves in voices loud and filled with the joy of newly-found freedom and when they laughed, Nasir couldn't stop a smile from coming onto his own face, despite his lack of understanding of their words. Agron's arm tightened around Nasir's shoulders and drew dark gaze to his blue one. "They are eager to make friends. Embrace them as brothers."

Agron moved from his side to get lost within the crowd, and Nasir was left to do as the gladiator suggested. The first man he approached was the one he had to crane his neck to see. The hand that gripped his forearm in greeting was bigger than any Nasir had ever seen before, and had the hold been a little tighter, he feared his arm would have snapped in two. Next, he exchanged grins with a woman who had blonde hair - too similar to Chadara's hair, he decided, but tried to move past quickly - and a look of unbridled energy.

The next German he encountered gave him a greeting he hadn't expected. Though the man was no taller than Nasir, he was twice the Syrian's thickness and three times his strength. Powerful arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground in an embrace he could never even try to escape, and he returned it as well as he could. Once he released Nasir, the German clapped him hard on the shoulder. "You are dear to my brother," he said loudly - whether or not he could actually speak in anything but a shout was a mystery. "And now to me!" The announcement was met with cheers from those surrounding, and several more people patted Nasir on the back or embraced him similarly.

So this was the family Agron had spoken of. Nasir was welcomed into it without a single question. If there were any prejudices among them, they did not rise; it seemed enough that Agron had taken Nasir into his arms and kissed him to convince every last one of these men that Nasir was to be welcomed. The former slave had never felt this: no warmth, no friendliness, no sense of real belonging - not until he'd been freed. And now, the same camaraderie he'd found joining Spartacus's ranks was here among the Germans, but felt tenfold. Nasir feared he might drown in it, but then Agron appeared at his side as if summoned by the thought.

Familiar hands rested on his shoulders and a familiar voice sounded, though in unfamiliar tongue. Agron addressed his kin, and whatever he had said pulled a great swell of laughter from the Germans. Nasir looked over his shoulder at Agron. "What did you say?" he asked, grinning. He felt he could never be unhappy in such company.

Before answering, Agron leaned down and pressed a hard kiss against Nasir's mouth, one that nearly threw the Syrian off-balance. He did not fear falling, though, not when the gladiator's arms were wrapped around him. "I told them that you were mine," Agron then answered brightly, pressing another kiss against Nasir's temple, "and that I'd have their cocks if they touched you."

Face still split in a smile, Nasir leaned back into Agron's embrace. "You can tell them I'd have their balls first," came his quick reply, which Agron translated for the men, a laugh in his voice. That, too, brought forth an amused roar from every last one of them. A response well-received, as everything else had been.

More and more, Nasir was amazed to find himself where he was. Holding and being held by a man that loved him. Free of any collar or chains. Finding friends he never would have before. Agron was to be thanked for this, but there was one other that deserved the same. Spartacus, who Nasir noticed was not among them.

Nasir shifted curious eyes to search for the leader of the rebellion, and saw him standing aside, deep in conversation with Crixus and the now healed Oenomaus. They all looked upon the crowd, but not with smiles as Nasir might have expected. Nasir's own grin faltered, a thing quickly noted by Agron, who then followed the Syrian's gaze. When the gladiator made no comment, Nasir spoke up.

"They do not celebrate with us?" he asked, the words only for Agron. "I expected them to be happy with the swelling of ranks."

The gladiator turned Nasir in his arms so the two were facing one another. Despite what the Syrian had pointed out, Agron seemed unaffected. Nothing could penetrate his joy in that moment. Not even some seeming disapproval from those he worked closest with. "You worry of this now, when the heart is so lifted from victory?" he asked, giving Nasir a pointed look meant to chase away concern.

It succeeded in doing so, but slowly. He wanted to know why Spartacus was not among them, greeting those that would make stronger the rebellion he led… but Nasir didn't want to take this happiness away from Agron. There was a distinct order to the Syrian's priorities, and Agron would always top that list.

The moment Nasir gave in to celebration and shrugged off any troubling thoughts registered clearly on his face, and that was when Agron lifted him up off the ground, quite like the German had only moments before. This time, though, Nasir clung tightly and wrapped his legs around the other man, hooking his ankles behind Agron's back. He wouldn't let go easily, now that he'd taken hold.

Agron shifted his hands down to cup Nasir's rear, his grip quite a bit tighter than it needed to be, if he was only trying to help Nasir stay wrapped around him. But his motivations were revealed to go further than that. "I would have reward for my victory," he said in a low, teasing voice, looking up at Nasir who now hovered just a few inches above.

"Would you?" Nasir returned with the same playfulness. He slid his hands up into Agron's hair and dragged his nails over the man's scalp, the touch drawing a small shiver from him that Nasir could feel against his own body. "Do you ask for it?"

A short chuckle escaped Agron's lips as they pressed against Nasir's jaw. "I do, little man."

Nasir never needed to worry about whether or not Agron would prefer his kin's company over the Syrian's. There the two of them stood among all the German, and Agron's eyes rested only on Nasir. The man's own language rang in his ears, the voices of his people no doubt tempting him to their familiar embrace, and yet he held Nasir and spoke to him in the common tongue.

"And what reward would you have, gladiator?" Nasir asked. He still teased, as if he didn't know what Agron had in mind. "Coin? Drink?"

Agron's reply was swift. "Only your company."

Three words that set Nasir's heart to racing. Such simple words, but the intent behind them was clear. And the tone of voice in which they had been spoken would have made weak the knees of a stronger man than Nasir. "I would give you all of me, but you won't yet take it," Nasir said softly. He wanted to kiss the corners of the smile that came onto Agron's face, and so he did, even as the man answered.

"The reward I take will be gentle," he said, and the expression in his eyes was not to be argued with, though an argument was fast to the tip of Nasir's tongue. He swallowed it. "To prevent wound from opening," Agron finished, and he slid one hand to the bandage still wrapped around Nasir's middle.

"The day this injury no longer troubles me," Nasir assured the other man, conviction in his voice, "is the day I do not take 'no' for answer." Agron said nothing against this but only lifted his chin and stole a kiss from Nasir's lips in reply. When that day came, no doubt Nasir would hear no denial from the gladiator.

Agron began to make his way through the crowd, carrying Nasir as if we weighed nothing. A few heads turned in their direction, and that was when the gladiator raised his voice in his own language yet again, and once more earned approving shouts and cheers in reply.

"What did you say?" Nasir asked for the second time that day. He paid no attention to where they were headed; he was instead just a little lost in Agron's blue eyes and the promising words they had just exchanged.

A grin stole over Agron's face. "I told them that I would return," he replied, "after receiving a gift that would welcome me home." And the two of them disappeared into the sanctuary.

* * *

The sanctuary was a maze of rooms that held dark corners and hidden, secret alcoves swathed in shadow, all perfect for a pair to disappear into. But Nasir didn't wait for the privacy of some concealed place. Hungry lips searched for Agron's and found them, claimed them, lured them into a kiss the moment they stepped into the temple. It was a deeper kiss than they'd shared upon Agron's return. A little more desperate. That one kiss held all the relief and happiness inside of Nasir that he could no longer contain. To have his gladiator here and whole and holding him was a blessing.

And he would take advantage of it.

Nasir's legs were still wrapped tightly around Agron's waist, and the gladiator bore the weight easily, carrying the smaller man through the corridors to where the warm welcome would be given. Nasir's heart raced at the very thought. Agron was so careful of him, so gentle because of his injury, and he wondered if this would be the end of that. He wondered if finally they'd be able to touch each other without the need for caution hanging over their heads.

Agron's lips wandered away from Nasir's, though the Syrian tried to chase after them. But a kiss was pressed against his jaw, and then lower on his neck, and then on his throat. His head tilted back to allow Agron more room to explore. "Your mouth steals breath from lungs," the gladiator murmured against warm skin, and Nasir could only let out a short, breathless laugh in response, because following those words he'd felt Agron's tongue steal a taste of him.

Finally, Agron lowered them both to the floor. There was a blanket beneath them and under that, cold stone, but that discomfort meant nothing to Nasir, who lay against it. He was far too distracted by the hot, open-mouthed kisses Agron was covering his throat in. Teeth teasingly grazed the Syrian's skin and pulled gasps from his parted lips. It felt too good. So good that Nasir forgot that this was a reward meant for Agron and not for him. The gladiator, returned to Nasir successful in his mission, should have been the one gasping and arching beneath the efforts of Nasir's mouth, and yet it was the other way around.

Those teasing, nipping teeth found Nasir's bottom lip, captured it and tugged on it hard enough to make him whimper. An apologetic tongue followed, sweeping over the Syrian's reddened mouth to soothe the bite and draw out his own tongue into yet another kiss, and this time the pace was slow and steady and set by the gladiator. Agron's fingertips slid down the arms Nasir had wrapped around his neck and stopped at his wrists, gently wrapping around one and pulling it away just as he pulled back from the kiss.

Agron's blue eyes shifted to the wrist he held in his hand. Nasir followed that gaze and, with a slow smile, realized what the other man was looking at. His wrist was wrapped in a piece of deep red cloth that hadn't always belonged to him. Agron had slipped it onto him before he'd left, without a single word - but he hadn't needed to speak. Nasir had known what it was a symbol of. Something to remember Agron by, just in case. Because there was always the danger of him never coming back.

"You wear this still," Agron said softly.

Nasir nodded. "I kept it close to me," he answered. He lifted his head so he could speak against the other man's mouth. "Pressed lips against it while you were gone," the Syrian continued, "and hoped you would feel them."

The fingers wrapped around Nasir's wrist tightened and then, to Nasir's surprise, both of his hands were suddenly pinned over his head, held against the floor by Agron's strong grip. The Syrian's breath left him in a shaking rush and his dark eyes were wide as they searched Agron's face. An experimental tug was all he needed to know that he wouldn't easily escape the gladiator's hold - though whether or not he would ever want to remained a mystery to him. Agron's voice sounded again, but this time it was deeper, more commanding, but held no less love.

"If your hands remain there of your own free will," he said, "I will have no cause to bind them."

"Agron—" Nasir started in protest, because he wanted nothing more than to touch the body pressed against his own, but the gladiator allowed him no more words than that.

"Is this not my gift?" he asked, a grin playing over his lips. Nasir wished to kiss it roughly away, but he refrained. Agron continued, leaning down to whisper the words into the Syrian's ear. "I would have you stretched out underneath me as I taste you."

Quite of its own volition, Nasir's body arched toward Agron, begging for exactly what he'd described. Already his hands twisted, still in the other man's grip, and needed to get lost in Agron's hair, down the back of his neck, over his shoulder blades to dig in and hold on. But Nasir wasn't allowed that. Agron closed his lips over the Syrian's earlobe and drew it between his teeth, grazing the sensitive skin and Nasir knew, he just knew he'd lose his mind by the time they were done.

And they'd barely even started. Everything Agron did was slow, languid, teasing; his mouth dragged down over Nasir's neck again and tasted the skin where it would, took its time making its way down to his collarbone. And still Agron's grip kept Nasir's hands pinned. Better that it did, because Nasir wouldn't have been able to keep them where they were when Agron's mouth reached his nipple, teasing it to a firm peak before biting down just enough to make the Syrian forget whether he moaned in pain or pleasure. It must have been pleasure, because why else would he have been pushing himself up against those lips? The same attention was given to Nasir's other nipple and he couldn't catch his breath, not for a moment.

Especially not when Agron's mouth trailed lower. Low enough that the gladiator had to relinquish his grip on Nasir's wrists.

The Syrian was confused at first at the loss of pressure, and then he realized he'd been freed. Agron's words still rang in his ears, though, and instead of touching the other man as he so badly wanted to, Nasir gathered the edge of the blanket underneath him, tangled his fingers in it and held tightly. Tight enough that his fingers began to ache, because Agron's mouth was at his hip - having skipped over the part of Nasir's middle still wrapped in bandages - and tracing the bone there with teeth and tongue before sliding along the waistband of his subligaria.

It was moving too slowly. Pleading words were on the tip of Nasir's tongue but all he could do was make helpless noises in the wake of this torture. But finally, there was some relief. Agron pulled the subligaria from his body and left him naked from the waist down, freeing the flesh that, just from the ministrations of that talented mouth, had grown hard. The Syrian gasped at the feeling of the cool air against his hot skin but it was nothing compared to what came next.

Agron's hot, wet tongue pressed against the base of Nasir's length and, at a agonizingly slow pace, slid up over its underside. The Syrian couldn't help it; one of his hands dragged down over his own body before tangling in Agron's hair and grasping tightly. Though the grip didn't last long. The attention being paid his cock disappeared and a noise of protest escaped Nasir. He began to glance down to see why that sweet sensation had been taken from him but there was no need, because Agron was hovering above him once more.

The gladiator grabbed his hands again and pushed them over his head where they should have remained. In a matter of seconds, Agron tugged the length of red cloth from around Nasir's one wrist only to tie it again around the both of them. Then Agron leaned down and met Nasir surprised gaze with his own severe one - though there was certainly some amusement in those blue eyes. "Do not distract me from task," he said firmly, and Nasir thought he saw a flash of a grin before Agron disappeared between his legs again.

The slow pace had been abandoned. Within seconds, Nasir's flesh was engulfed in the tight heat of Agron's mouth, the sensation pulling a strangled cry from the Syrian's throat. His hips thrust upwards but were immediately pushed back down and held there by the gladiator's powerful hands. It was likely Agron held him still so he didn't strain his body, stretch it in a way that would open his wound, but none of that crossed Nasir's mind. He could only let out a frustrated noise at the restriction and struggle, but Agron's strength was something he was unable to overcome.

Nasir's breathing came more rapidly. His chest rose and fell with it and the muscles of his abdomen clenched and lips so tightly wrapped around his length slid up and down in a rhythm meant to drive him mad. All he could do was writhe and arch his back there on the floor - but then even that was stopped with a palm pressed firmly on his chest. The sounds he made were ones Agron certainly hadn't heard before and maybe ones Nasir had never heard from his own lips, because he'd never been so tormented. But nor had he ever felt so _good_. Too good. Agron was driving him to the edge of his sanity and of his release.

Agron must have known, because the noises of pleasure he made around Nasir's length, noises that sent vibrations through it, only brought the end more rapidly. Nasir's breath had caught in his throat and he couldn't recall how to take in air except in harsh gasps. His entire body was tensing, pushing against the hands that held him against the floor in an effort to move, to ride against that mouth until he'd come. But Agron would draw it out of him on his own.

"Agron—" Nasir whispered, and it might have been a warning. But the Syrian was given no mercy. " _Agron_ ," Nasir repeated, and it seemed that mouth only tightened further, moved faster. There was a moment in which Nasir was suspended there at his peak and then he came crashing down, his body trembling in release. Agron's mouth did not withdraw; the gladiator swallowed, throat closing over Nasir's length and cleaning him of all evidence. Even when Nasir's body weakened, collapsed against the floor, Agron's tongue slid over his spent and sensitive flesh, once or twice making his stomach clench and his spine bow. Nasir hadn't the strength to say 'stop' or to beg for it to be over, but Agron pulled away soon enough, settling beside the Syrian's exhausted body.

Gentle hands untied Nasir's wrists, though he didn't move them from where they were. Agron did instead, lifting them one by one to brush his lips against them in the softest kisses. The skin there was tender, though the cloth had been more forgiving than rope or chains may have been. Next, there were kisses at the corners of Nasir's closed eyes, and then Agron's voice sounded in his ear.

"Gratitude," he said, and yet another kiss was pressed against Nasir's temple, "for my gift."

A slow smile came onto Nasir's face. "You are thanking me?" he asked, tone lazily incredulous. He would have been laughing had he the breath for it.

Agron was carefully wrapping the red cloth back around Nasir's wrist, where it belonged. "It was what I desired," he answered, and though Nasir hadn't opened his eyes, he knew the man was grinning. There was a pause, and then Agron asked, "Are you able to move?"

"No," Nasir replied immediately. He wasn't going to try. "Never again."

A breathy laugh. "Not even to let me taste your lips?"

Blindly, Nasir lifted his hand. "If I can find yours," he said, eyes still stubbornly closed, and his fingertips pressed against Agron's skin. It was his neck, over which Nasir's exploring fingers slid, and then his jaw, and then his chin, and finally his lips. The Syrian, with great effort, lifted his head and kissed his gladiator, and was grateful when the man's arms wrapped around him and held him close. Perhaps it was a gift enough, that Nasir, even when weakened, would seek out those lips in one last kiss.

* * *

Agron left his kinsmen at his back. They were all in the courtyard, still eating and drinking - water, though some of them would have preferred wine - and would do so into the night, despite having to wake with the sun to go hunting at Spartacus's request. Rather than stay with them, Agron moved into the sanctuary to find Nasir, who had left the extended celebration some time ago. He had been looking pale; the Syrian still regained his strength as the days went by, but Agron's homecoming had robbed him of any reserve of it.

Turning a corner, Agron came upon the man he was looking for. Nasir stood with Naevia, who was finishing replacing the bandage around the Syrian's middle. Dark eyes lifted to Agron the moment he came into the room, and there was a smile on Nasir's lips, just for the gladiator. Agron had no desire to return it, not with his mind so darkened by the argument he and Spartacus had had. Surely it was the absence of a grin that drove Nasir to stopping Naevia's hands. He turned to her and said something in a low voice, something Agron couldn't hear, and the woman took leave soon after.

"Your face is absent the smile that has brightened it all day," Nasir observed, glancing at Agron before looking down to his bandage so he could finish wrapping it around himself. Agron, who had been leaning in the doorway, pushed away from it and walked fully into the room, heaving a sigh. He sat on a nearby chair, leaning back in it and crossing his arms over his chest. He was the very picture of a petulant child, suffering for the scolding from a disappointed parent.

When Agron made no reply, Nasir approached him, kneeling in front of where he sat and reaching up to take the gladiator's chin in his hand. Agron lowered his head reluctantly, meeting the Syrian's concerned gaze with his own stormy one. The blue depths of his eyes had darkened in his anger, and there was no doubt Nasir could see that.

"Tell me what troubles you," he suggested in a gentle voice.

Agron had been able to keep the rage he felt inside before then. He had remained cool-headed throughout the conversation he'd had with Spartacus and he'd managed a grin and pleasant tone of voice when he'd told his kinsmen about the hunting they'd be doing in the morning, but now that he was with Nasir and now that the man was asking Agron to divulge his true feelings, he could feel his control fraying.

"Spartacus has seen fit to chastise me like a child," he spat, pulling his chin from Nasir's grip. There was no need to turn frustration upon Nasir, but Agron knew nothing of that at the moment. "I bring him men , strong men, from the ports of Neapolis and yet he remains un-fucking-satisfied."

It wasn't the whole story. Of that, Agron was aware. It only just scraped the surface and was told in a way that ensured Spartacus got all of the blame - and why shouldn't he? Agron had done nothing wrong, not in his own eyes. Why, then, was he concealing things as if he had? It was a question he refused to ask himself, because the answer would not serve him well.

Nasir's brows drew together and he stayed where he was, though he moved his hand on Agron's knee instead. "Did he give reason?" he asked, gaze searching the gladiator's face. Nasir would find expression slowly darkening, mouth twisting into a sneer and teeth baring. It was then that Agron stood again and took to pacing. A moment passed before he replied, and when he did, it was in a raised voice that shook with the anger he could no longer control.

"The task was given to me to find which ships docked and when they docked. That is a task I fucking completed." Agron lifted a hand to rub at his face, then turned his head to look at Nasir, though his feet still paced the stone floor beneath them. "I chose a boat filled with my own kin," he continued, gesturing toward himself, fingertip pressing hard against his chest, "over one filled with fucking Gauls. And for this, Spartacus turns disapproval onto me." Agron's gaze was intent on Nasir's expression. He looked for confusion toward or disbelief of Spartacus's behavior. But instead, the Syrian looked thoughtful.

And that didn't help extinguish the rage rising inside of Agron. Not in the least.

The gladiator gave Nasir no time to respond, driving his argument forward. "Crixus would have chosen _his_ own people over mine!" he shouted, gesturing toward the open doorway with the sweeping of one arm, as if the accused stood there. "And given the choice between Thracian and German, would Spartacus not choose those from his country?"

Nasir's words were quick to follow, so that he could get them in at all. Dark-skinned hands lifted and were held out in something like surrender as Nasir rose to his feet, though his words spoke of no such thing. "I believe Spartacus would have spoken to you of the choice," the Syrian said, "and then decided with you."

Whether or not Nasir was right didn't matter. Agron gave it no thought. Instead, he stepped closer to the other man, face collapsing into an expression more incredulous. "Do not tell me you agree with Spartacus," he almost begged. Then, louder, "This rebellion was in need of men like mine. We now have them because of the decision I made."

When the last of echo of Agron's words disappeared, a tense silence came between them. Agron's pacing had ceased and his body was turned and leaning toward Nasir, and his eyes were narrowed as if searching for the moment the Syrian would switch his allegiance in this from Spartacus to Agron. That moment did not come, though. Soon, Nasir parted his lips, dark eyes slipping to the side to avoid Agron's gaze. "You were so eager to be among your kin again that you forgot yourself," he said finally, his voice low.

At that, Agron drew back slightly, staring wide-eyed at the man. He had come here expecting support. Expecting the man he so loved to fall in line beside him, to agree with him and assure him that Spartacus had been wrong. But instead he was given _this_. "And so you would have seen this sanctuary crawling with more Gauls," Agron spat, taking another step back, "rather than my kin, who greeted you as brother."

Nasir stepped forward quickly, reaching out for Agron. "I said nothing of—"

Agron interrupted. "Fucking _Gauls_ , who would sooner piss on you than embrace you." A short and humorless laugh escaped him and he shook his head, turning away. He was half-tempted to leave and join the company of his kin again. No criticism would be found there, only men grateful to be free and among friends.

But Nasir's voice kept him there. "This is not about comparing Gauls and Germans," he insisted. "All men enslaved by Rome deserve to be freed no matter from which country they hail."

Agron had admired Nasir's conviction once. Now that it was turned against him, though, he held no love for it. The gladiator could not find the words to reply, not when all manner of unpleasant feeling held sway over him. He felt betrayed. Made a villain. Why could no one see that what he had done had been for the benefit of them all? It was the same with any decision he made, and yet no one could see the good intention behind it until it was too late.

There was a gentle hand upon his arm. Agron looked down at it, surprised to find it there; he'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't heard Nasir's approach. Reluctantly, the gladiator gave in to the pressure on his arm and turned to face the other man. There was nothing tender in the way Agron looked down at the the Syrian, despite the apology he could see in Nasir's eyes.

An apology worth nothing, because still Nasir was against him. "You must know there are men among us - men who are not your kin - that are good," Nasir said. "Spartacus is not German. I myself am Syrian."

Agron's blue eyes were cold. "More Roman than Syrian," he snapped.

The second after the words had fallen from his lips, Agron regretted them. His expression immediately softened and he opened his mouth to speak, to say he was sorry, but Nasir lifted a hand to silence him and the apology died in his throat. In another attempt, the gladiator reached out to take the Syrian into his arms, but he stepped away from the embrace. Nasir was hurt. It was clear in every line of his face, clear in the dull look of pain in his dark eyes. The fact that Agron had done this to other man pulled him forcefully from his anger. Too late, though.

Too late, because Nasir turned and walked away, and Agron was too heavily weighed down by shame to chase after him.

* * *

Once or twice, when he'd been hunting with his kin, Agron had been able to forget the words that had passed between himself and Nasir the night before. Once or twice, and only for a moment at a time, he'd been able to smile without feeling it stretch his face with its falseness, without having to force his muscles into the expression for the sake of his brothers.

But a reminder had always been swift to find him. It was sometimes the cadence of someone's laughter, close to that of Nasir's but never quite right. It was sometimes the touch of someone's hand, before Agron realized it was too heavy and not tender enough to be Nasir's. Those were the things that had gripped Agron tight and dragged him back down into his guilt. More often than not, his footfalls had been laden with it. Not even attempt to give Nasir some of the blame - for betraying him, however small the betrayal seemed now - lessened Agron's burden.

Now back within the walls of the sanctuary and after yet another lecture from Spartacus, Agron wanted nothing more than to find his Syrian, to kiss him awake and find comfort in familiar arms. And all without words to create a rift between them. But he couldn't bring himself to seek the other man out. Especially not while he had the eyes of Spartacus and Crixus on him. They were ever-watchful as Agron and his kin cleaned the game they'd killed, as if just searching for fault within them. It all left Agron tired after a night during which he'd found no rest.

Soon, Agron felt yet another gaze on him. He didn't need to turn to know whose it was. The weight of it was familiar. What Agron didn't know was the intent in that gaze; did Nasir look upon him with anger? Was there pain in his dark eyes? Did they plead with Agron to turn and meet them with his own? The gladiator turned slightly and saw the other man just within his periphery - but the chance to meet Nasir's eyes was stolen from him whether or not he'd have been able to find the strength to do so, because it was then that Sedullus noticed the Syrian's arrival.

"My little, dark brother!" the man called, and following those words came many other voices in greeting. Sedullus stood and drew Nasir into what was likely a bone-crushing embrace, picking him up off the ground in the process. One feet touched back down on earth, Nasir greeted each of the men and women in kind before finally coming to where Agron sat. The gladiator was taking a wet cloth to his hands, cleaning himself of the blood of the animal he'd butchered, occupying himself with it fully so that when he was done, his hands had never been so clean. Anything to distract himself.

It was Nasir who first broke the silence between them. "Your men show their worth," he said, voice cautious.

Agron's eyes were on the courtyard's wall, studying the cracks in it, because there he would find no evidence of what had happened between himself and Nasir. He searched for the words to answer but found it difficult to pick them out, because all that came to mind was an apology for the biting words he'd said to the other man. Funny - it was shame that both made him want to apologize and made it impossible to do so.

No, he couldn't say it. Not yet. "You are the only one to see it," Agron answered instead, then shifted gaze to rest upon Spartacus, Crixus, and Lucius, all sitting on the stairs and speaking among themselves. He saw Nasir's head turn in their direction, too.

"Spartacus still doubts?" Nasir asked, glancing back at Agron. Their eyes met in that moment, finally. It was brief; Agron averted his gaze after a few seconds, unable to hold it there, but in those seconds he'd found no less love in the way Nasir looked at him. A relief that threatened to undo him surged through his body. There had been warmth and caring and love in those dark eyes. Not loathing or anger as Agron had expected - though there was pain in them still. And there was only one way to chase that away.

But no, he still couldn't say it. "Spartacus finds fault where there is none," Agron replied, "no doubt because of poisonous words the fucking Gaul whispers into his ear." Because Agron had noticed the two speaking more closely than before they had returned from Neapolis. The gladiator only assumed that they spoke of nothing more than his incompetence, because that was all he'd heard from either.

"If there are whispers, Spartacus will soon forget them," Nasir assured him, "in the wake of your kin's continued aid."

"I hope I can forget Spartacus's words against me," Agron said, glancing at the Thracian. But then his gaze shifted once more to Nasir, and this time it remained. His voice lowered and was so soft that Nasir could choose to ignore it, if that was what he desired. "As I hope you forget the words I spoke against you."

Agron suddenly became very aware of his heartbeat in the following silence. It was faster than normal and the pulse of it was in his ears as he waited for Nasir's reply. The Syrian's brows were raised, whether in surprise at Agron's almost-apology or in disbelief of it, the gladiator had no idea.

After a moment that seemed to pass in the time of a year, Nasir replied. "You spoke in anger," he said, and though his voice was gentle, there was an edge to it. One that revealed the hurt went deeper than that weak apology had reached. "Those words were not your own."

"Nasir—" Agron began, but was interrupted when Nemetes walked past, clapping Nasir hard on the shoulder and shouting a greeting. He said a few words in broken common tongue about their hunt but moved on quickly enough. Initially, Agron had been annoyed at the man's arrival, but somehow it had taken a little bit of the tension out of the air. Perhaps it was because Nasir had smiled at the man, or perhaps they had just needed the break. Whatever it was, Agron's chest felt just a little less tight, and for that he was grateful.

Still, he was hesitant when he lifted a hand to reach out for Nasir. It faltered once but then his fingertips touched the man's hip, wrapped around it. He used that grip to draw Nasir nearer. "You must know," he said, still looking up at the other man, "that I would choose to have you by my side before any of my kin." He spoke softly so as not to be overheard, but there was no less meaning in the statement. What he said was the truth. His countrymen though Nasir was not, Agron still thought more of him than of the men he had liberated from the port. Roman or Syrian or even fucking Gaul, it mattered not - Nasir held his heart.

Nasir's hands hesitated, too, but soon slid into Agron's hair. Only hours had passed since the last time Nasir had touched him and yet Agron felt starved of it, and to feel it again brought him more sweet relief. The gladiator closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Nasir's hips, turning his head to gently press his cheek against the man's middle, ever-careful of the wound that still healed.

"I know," Nasir whispered, holding Agron close to him, and the gladiator heard not a single shred of doubt in that statement.

As far as Nasir's betrayal - though that was too harsh a word for it - it was forgotten, and easily. Agron needed no apology in return, for the purpose of Nasir's words had never been to wound, unlike the gladiator's words . Agron knew that Nasir wanted nothing more than to be treated as family by the German, knew that the Syrian embraced them all as brothers and was happy for their presence there. Nasir only thought that the decision Agron had made should not have been one made on his own, and perhaps the Syrian was right. Perhaps he was wrong, but it didn't matter, because Agron refused to turn his anger on Nasir again. At least where this was concerned.

The hands in Agron's hair began to withdraw, but he reached up quickly and slid his own hands over them to stop Nasir from pulling away.

He wouldn't be parted from the man so soon. Those hands moved to gently hold his upturned face, and for a brief moment, the two only looked at one another. And then, all at once, Nasir was in Agron's lap, legs straddling it, half from the Syrian's own efforts and half from being pulled into it by Agron's strong arms. Arms that now held Nasir's body tight against his own.

Their lips hovered on the edge of a kiss. Eyes were closed, foreheads touching, noses brushing against one another and their breathing mingled. Perhaps that pause should have been filled with words, apologies and forgiveness and anything else left unsaid, but no. When finally their lips did meet, all of that was within the kiss itself. Such a sweet kiss. Until it wasn't.

Until it became a little more desperate. It only took the briefest taste of Nasir's tongue before Agron leaned forward, pressed his mouth harder against the other man's, and Nasir returned the pressure in kind. More than that, he pushed back so hard that Agron suddenly lost his balance, and the two of them tumbled off the back of the crate the gladiator sat on. Agron hit the sand underneath with a short grunt, Nasir's weight landing on top of him, and only when an amused roar and cheering came from those around them did the two even think to pull away from the kiss, just to dissolve into breathless laughter soon after.

* * *

Sedullus' corpse was dragged from the courtyard, leaving a long trail of blood in its wake. Agron's gaze followed, but shifted before the dead man was out of sight, distracted by a familiar figure. "Nasir," he breathed, starting toward the Syrian. Agron's tired and bruised body resisted the movement but nothing would overcome his need to have Nasir in his arms in that moment. Their bodies crashed together, arms winding around one another, Nasir's around Agron's waist and the gladiator's around the other man's shoulders, one hand cradling Nasir's head against his chest.

"You should not have been fighting," Agron said in a whisper, and he tightened the fingers tangled in Nasir's hair to gently draw the man's head back. The gladiator's lips pressed against the Syrian's forehead; it was just a little warm and slightly damp and surely Nasir's body wasn't ready for something like this. That was why he was still resting at the sanctuary rather than accompanying them on missions. That wound of his…

Agron looked down between them at the cloth wrapped around Nasir's middle, checking for blood. He found exactly what he'd feared; a stain of red on the white bandage. The gladiator's breath left him in a rush and his distress at this discovery must have shown on his face, because Nasir quickly followed Agron's gaze. "Agron," Nasir rushed to say. "It matters not. It's nothing." But Agron was already leading the other man to the nearby stairs and lowering him gently onto them, kneeling in front of him and undressing the wound.

The wound was slowly uncovered and Agron exhaled once more, this time in relief. The gash in Nasir's side hadn't opened up again, as Agron had feared. There was just the slightest tear in it, though, which accounted for the blood. Now that his fear was abated, Agron let his gaze wander over the rest of the other man, in case some new injury had been inflicted, but the Syrian was mercifully unharmed, save for some small amount of blood around his mouth, but it was nothing to worry about. Had he been truly hurt, the killing wouldn't have stopped at Sedullus. Agron would have taken up a sword and run through whichever of his kin had dared lay his hands on Nasir.

"You worry for me," the Syrian said gently, "and yet you were the one Sedullus would have stricken down with that sword."

Agron splayed his fingers on Nasir's hip, just underneath his still-healing wound, and dug his fingertips in just slightly, glad for how solid and whole Nasir still was under his touch. He had no concern for himself, despite how sure he'd been of the gladius in Sedullus' hand striking home. "If not for Spartacus, it would have come to pass," he said distractedly.

"You speak as if it is of little importance," Nasir breathed. He reached out to take Agron's chin in his hand and lift the gladiator's gaze, which had still been searching for any sign of pain in the Syrian. "But when I saw him lift steel overhead I thought my heart stopped beating."

It seemed Nasir needed the same reassurance that Agron was all right. With a small smile, the gladiator pressed his hand against Nasir's chest and could feel the man's heartbeat. "It yet pumps blood," was his light reply. But then his voice grew firmer. "And no more will spill on account of my people. I promise you that."

Nasir's fingertips slipped away from Agron's chin and curled into a fist, which he gently and rhythmically beat against the gladiator's own hand over the Syrian's heart. It was just as the Germans had done to show their allegiance to Spartacus. "They are truly our brothers now," Nasir said before pressing his fist against his chest one more time, and then taking Agron's hand in his own. "And none can part lips to question them again."

Agron doubted that. There was one man that might yet doubt the Germans and Agron himself. Crixus. Thought of the Gaul turned mind to Naevia. Agron had come to her defense, and that was what had started the fight ending in Sedullus' passage to the afterlife. The German hadn't gotten far in his assault of the woman; of that, Agron had made sure. It was likely she was shaken, but not badly hurt. It was a relief Agron had noticed what was happening when he had. Otherwise the damage might have been more lasting.

"You look troubled."

Nasir's voice lured Agron out of his thoughts. He shook his head and gently squeezed the Syrian's fingers with his own. "I wondered about Naevia, but her Gaul likely tends to her. As I will tend to you. Come."

Agron stood and used his grip on the other man's hand to pull him to his feet and lead him into the sanctuary. There, he would find water and cloth to both clean and dress Nasir's wound once more. Things the Syrian very well could have done for himself, but Agron wanted to take care of him. He couldn't help but feel responsible for all that had happened. When would he stop making decisions that ended up hurting those he cared about? When would he stop making decisions that brought the heavy burden of guilt down on his shoulders?

In some private corner within the temple, Nasir sat on a table, leaning back on his elbows so Agron, who stood adjacent, could drag dampened cloth over the blood that stained dark skin. An oil lamp burned nearby, casting shadows on the both of them, making the wound on Nasir's belly look worse than it really was. Agron was careful as he navigated it, avoiding putting any more pressure on it than it had already endured in the fight.

"I'll never know how battle-worn hands can make such delicate work of caring for me," Nasir said softly into the silence between them as Agron finished cleaning the wound. There was no vocal reply, but the gladiator's gaze traveled over the other man's body, over Nasir's stomach and his chest, and his hand followed. It was slow in its ascent and all the while Agron squeezed the cloth clutched in his fingers, wringing it of water that now slid over Nasir's skin from neck to navel, dripping over his sides.

Nasir's head fell back, his eyes closed, and Agron took that opportunity to slide the cloth over the throat he'd just exposed. As a smile threatening to curl the corners of his mouth, Agron reached out with his free hand and cupped the back of the other man's head, lifting it slightly so he could clean that face of any remaining blood. And when that was done, the cloth was abandoned, and Agron's fingers played at Nasir's lips. "I only hope to ease whatever lingers of rougher hands than mine," he said. Those dark eyes fluttered open and met Agron's gaze, and the gladiator expected something sweet in return.

Instead, Nasir spoke with unsettling clarity. "Tell me what troubles you, Agron. Do you mourn Sedullus' passing?"

The pad of Agron's thumb swept over Nasir's bottom lip even as he spoke. The gladiator shook his head and weighed his words, for it seemed Nasir would be able to read into them more than most others would. "No. His death served a higher purpose. My kin are loyal to Spartacus now." Agron held the side of Nasir's face, and he looked at the man's lips with intent to taste them. "I only dread the apologies I will need to make when the dawn breaks."

Any reply Nasir would make was stolen away with a kiss. It was a deep kiss meant specifically to rob the Syrian of words, and it did just that, because when Agron pulled away the other man was breathless. "I would rest before then, with you sleeping against me." There was a question in his gaze; they had spent the night before apart because of what Agron had said, and now he looked for permission.

It was given with a nod. No more words were exchanged as Agron wrapped Nasir in clean bandages. The two then found the piece of floor they'd made their bed and fell asleep with legs tangled and lips resting against warm skin. The morning would come, Agron was sure, but before then there were hours and hours of Nasir's steady breathing against his body and whatever dreams would come. He took comfort in that.


	5. Chapter 5

"First position." Oenomaus' voice rang out and after that, the clashing of wooden sword against wooden sword. Both were sounds Agron remembered well from his days within the ludus, but this time, he heard them within the walls of the rebellion's sanctuary. And instead of wielding his own training weapon with the rest, he only observed as one who had already learned all he could from the former Doctore. His eyes were on one man in particular among those who were now under Oenomaus' tutelage; a certain Syrian who, despite all worry, insisted he was well enough to take up the sword again and train. This would be his test to see if words rang true; if his body endured a day beneath Doctore's training, then he was well enough.

It was with a grin that Agron watched Nasir fight against one of his kin. The German man outweighed Nasir and possessed more strength, but the Syrian was fast on his feet. So fast that he made quick work of the man, laying him flat on the ground within a moment. "You learn quickly," Oenomaus observed, looking down at Nasir. Agron could see his Syrian was trying not to look pleased with himself. "Agron," came Doctore's voice again, and the gladiator glanced up, both eyebrows raised. "Give him a challenge."

The grin on Agron's face widened. "Yes, Doctore," he said, tone laced with amusement. Agron pushed himself off the pillar on which he had been leaning and descended the stairs, taking up the wooden sword offered to him by one of his kin. He met Nasir's eyes and there was a secret, silent exchange between the two of them. This had swiftly become a contest, though what the winner would receive remained yet a mystery. It would be decided when one of them was forced to yield to the other.

"First position," came the command again, and Agron's body immediately shifted. Automatically, as if he'd never left the sands of the ludus. It was a bittersweet reminder; the things he'd learned there had been invaluable, but ghosts yet lingered. Ones he wouldn't call to his side right then, though, not with Nasir so near and their competition just starting. No, he put that out of his mind. "Begin," Oenomaus instructed, and so they did. The first few blows were those choreographed. Those taught by the doctore. They came as easily and naturally to Agron as did his own breathing, but he could see Nasir thinking of them.

Agron would distract Nasir from those simple swings. The Syrian didn't need to think; he only needed to move, to react. And so, without warning, Agron deviated from what Oenomaus had taught and swung freely at Nasir. For a brief second, Agron thought he'd taken Nasir so off-guard that he might actually strike the other man, but that was proved false when the Syrian's wooden gladius shifted to block the attack. It was a natural defense. Done without thinking. That was what Agron wanted to see.

And so Agron lunged forward and began to swing his sword relentlessly. He was blocked at every turn and, soon, Nasir began pushing _him_ back. That was when the cheering began; those watching started taking sides, started jeering and shouting commands to the two fighting, and it was like being in the arena again. Except that there were a few key differences. First, he fought against someone he loved. Second, he fought with a blade that could do no damage. Third, the audience thirsted not for his death, but for one of them to be made a fool of. And it wouldn't be Agron. Or at least that was what he decided.

He went harder. His skill with the sword was greater than Nasir's, no matter how hard the Syrian tried. But perhaps Agron didn't know his own strength, because when he brought his sword down and met Nasir's, the Syrian suddenly let out a cry of pain and clutched at his side with his free hand. Agron's sword arm immediately dropped and he reached out for the other man - and that was when he saw the grin on Nasir's face. In another second, his feet were swept out from under him and he was on his back in the sand, looking up into the dark eyes of the victor, whose wooden sword was pressed against Agron's neck.

Those around them roared with laughter, none more loudly than Agron's own kin. The gladiator couldn't help but join in, shaking his head. Nasir stepped back and offered his hand, and Agron took it, hauling himself to his feet. "I would have had you in a fair fight," he insisted, nudging Nasir in the chest with the tip of his wooden gladius while still holding onto the hand he'd taken.

"Would you have?" Nasir asked, the challenge still in his dark gaze. "I think not. I find advantage and take it. And would do in any fight."

Both Agron's eyebrows raised. He liked this confidence in the Syrian. He liked it very, very much. "We'll test it again some day," the gladiator said, his fingertips sliding along Nasir's forearm when finally they let go of one another.

Oenomaus spoke again. "Break for drink and rest. We will resume soon." At that, the crowd dispersed, milling toward the nearest sources of water. Both Nasir and Agron turned to do the same, though Agron let Nasir go ahead so he could hang back and have a word with the doctore.

"Your Syrian fights with skill," Oenomaus said, and Agron couldn't stop the proud grin that slipped onto his face. He watched Nasir as he stood in the back of the line for water, fascinated with everything he did. Even just standing there, Nasir was the most compelling thing Agron had ever seen. Oenomaus, with a smile, continued. "He is resourceful. That will serve him well."

"And so will your teachings," Agron then said, turning his attention to Oenomaus, "as they have served me." But his gaze was drawn back to Nasir, who now stood alone at the water, pouring himself a cup of it. Agron clapped Doctore on the shoulder in a short farewell and then strode forward to meet his Syrian, his steps quick. When he reached Nasir, he pressed up against his back and reached around him, wrapping his fingers around the handle of the jug Nasir still held. With that grip, Agron helped pour them both a drink, though most of his focus was on his other hand at Nasir's hip. His fingertips were slowly exploring Nasir's warm skin.

It was a good thing Agron too held the clay jug, because at the gladiator's touch, Nasir's hand faltered. How easy it was to undo him.

Agron spoke as if there was no tension between them. As if his hand wasn't dragging over Nasir's stomach and they weren't pressed close together. "Even Oenomaus praises your skill," he said conversationally. "It seems you have proved well enough to take up the sword again." Turning his head to the side, Agron brushed his lips against Nasir's temple. His wandering fingers stopped at the scar on Nasir's abdomen. "You have overcome a great wound, little man."

Abruptly, Nasir turned around to face Agron, his hand slipped out from under the other man's. "As I have overcome you in the sands," he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Oh, he was far too pleased with himself.

"I will only fall victim to that trick but once," Agron said, leaning closer to Nasir. He pressed his hands against the tabletop behind the other man, trapping him in his arms. "And so your luck will run out."

Nasir laughed and slid his arms around Agron's neck, tilting his head up to nudge the gladiator's nose with his own. "Luck or not, I deserve reward for my victory." The Syrian's lips hovered close to Agron's, threatening to claim them in a kiss. Agron, impatiently, used tongue and teeth to catch Nasir's upper lip and tug on it.

"What would you have of me?" the gladiator asked as Nasir's body pressed closer, encouraged by that teasing bite.

They shared a gentle, slow kiss. "You know what I would have," the Syrian practically purred, and Agron was so distracted by his sweet tone of voice and even sweeter mouth that, for a moment, he blindly agreed, nodding and taking from Nasir another kiss. But then he realized what exactly the other man was implying, and he pulled back, brows drawing together.

"Nasir—" he began to protest, and on the tip of his tongue was the same worry he'd had since the Syrian had been wounded. But he wasn't allowed to speak it. Nasir's arms dropped from around Agron's neck. One hand grabbed the leather strap that crossed the gladiator's chest, pulling it and bringing Agron to his level, and the other pressed insistent fingers against the man's lips. Both Agron's eyebrows raised in surprise.

When next Nasir spoke, his words were firm. "If I am well enough to train," he stated, "I am well enough to lay with you."

Again, Agron began to protest, but his words faltered at the severe look on Nasir's dark features. "I will not hear you tell me otherwise," the Syrian said. Slowly, he slid his fingertips from Agron's lips and then kissed them quickly, to stop any words falling from them. When Nasir pulled back, it wasn't very far, so that when he spoke their lips yet touched. "You have promises to keep, gladiator," Nasir whispered, voice low. "See them fulfilled in our bed tonight."

Agron could find nothing to say against the orders being given him. Concern for Nasir was slowly being overridden by desire to have that body naked and against his own, to have those limbs wrapped tightly around him and that voice, so firm and commanding at the moment, broken and whimpering in pleasure. The very thought drew a low growl from him, and he pressed his mouth hard against Nasir's in a short, rough kiss. "Tonight," he then agreed. Twice he had surrendered to Nasir that day. The Syrian's hand was wandering over Agron's chest, teasing lower, and the gladiator stopped it. "Enough," he said, meeting Nasir's gaze with his own and grinning. "Or I'll take you right here atop this table."

They were both tempted by the idea, but parted anyway, their minds filled with what would happen between them once darkness fell. Nasir disappeared into the sanctuary and Agron headed back toward the courtyard, where training had resumed. Minutes passed - Saxa and Nemetes fought and Agron was a happy spectator - and then something to steal away what would have been a night of great bliss entered the temple.

A hush fell over them all. Agron's eyes turned and there was Spartacus, dragging into the courtyard a woman in fine Roman dress. One with blonde hair and a belly full with child. Glaber's wife.

Agron could think of only one thing to say in response. "Fuck the gods."

* * *

Agron had one arm crossed over his chest, the other bent at the elbow so he could run his fingertips across his own bottom lip. It could have been a thoughtful gesture, had it not been for the hungry look in his eyes. He leaned against the wall in the corridor outside of where Glaber's woman was being kept, and his gaze was intent on the other man standing guard with him. Nasir, who didn't even know he was being so admired. Or perhaps that wasn't the right word. It was with more than admiration that Agron looked upon him.

The Syrian's eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the wall opposite Agron. In the silence, he heaved a deep breath and then yawned, lifting a hand to cover his mouth. All of this underneath Agron's watchful gaze. It wasn't until the gladiator spoke that Nasir opened his dark eyes. "Tired?" Agron asked, fingers still playing at his own lips. He could have been thinking about what those lips might have been doing, had the two of them not been set to this task.

Nasir seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Vigilance escapes me," he confessed, stepping away from the stone on which he'd been resting and stretching his arms over his head, "if only because my body had expected something to distract it from sleep."

As if Agron needed to be reminded. Finally he'd conceded to Nasir's wishes, finally he'd agreed that it was time but that time had been stolen from them once that Roman bitch had entered the sanctuary. And now that Agron had it in his head, the idea wouldn't soon leave. Never had he wanted Nasir more. Never had he more desired to see what the man would be like stretched beneath him.

The gladiator closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, but when he opened them again his yearning had not lessened. If only they could escape their duty. If only they could get someone else. But then again…. Agron turned his head from side to side and looked for shadows traveling the corridor, listened for the sound of other's voices, but he heard and saw nothing. He and Nasir were alone, save the woman kept prisoner in the next room. His gaze once again fell on Nasir, and a grin played at the corners of his mouth. "Then I will wake you," Agron said, striding forward and sweeping the Syrian into his arms.

Nasir's back was pressed against the wall again and Agron claimed his mouth in a kiss, and the moment their lips touched, the gladiator's hunger for the other man only intensified. Nasir responded in kind, his hand holding Agron's face close as he pressed forward into the kiss, and in that he begged for more. Agron was breathless; for the first time, they both knew what they wanted and they knew it was just within reach, and it made this taste all the sweeter. Sinking his teeth into the Syrian's bottom lip, Agron pulled back and reveled in the sound of Nasir's gasp. He surged forward for more, but suddenly there were hands pressed against his chest and he was pushed backwards.

What, was he teasing? Agron's lips curled in a smile and he opened his eyes to look at Nasir, the hunger still burning within their blue depths. His hand he kept wrapped around the back of the other man's neck, his fingertips playing at the sensitive skin and curling in the Syrian's long hair.

Nasir spoke. "We must wait," he said, "until Spartacus relieves us of charge."

Agron almost laughed. Wait? No, not now that he'd had a taste of what was to come. "Time moves too slowly," he said in a low voice, and still he smiled - because he could see the other man's resolve disappearing before his very eyes. And he was quickly proved correct.

"We must be quick, then," Nasir said, with a grin to match Agron's, and they crashed together once more. How quickly Agron had driven the sleep from Nasir with tongue and teeth. How very awake he seemed now, how very thirsty for all Agron would give him. How eager.

The Syrian's hand slid slowly down Agron's chest. Fingertips teased along the length of leather wrapped crossways over the gladiator's chest and then lower, lower - Agron pulled back from the kiss, his breath catching in his throat and a jolt traveling the length of his body as Nasir's hand disappeared between his legs. He leaned forward again blindly and his lips somehow found the other man's and he pressed harder, pressed closer, pushed his hips forward into the fingers that so teased him.

And then, suddenly, a voice. "This is how you stand guard?" Agron stepped back quickly and turned to see Mira not far away, looking upon them with an amused sort of expression. Agron's cheeks were hot and the rest of him hotter and he was at a loss for words. It was a difficult recovery to make, especially with the things Nasir's hand had been doing to him.

But the Syrian made attempt at an excuse. "Apologies," he said quickly. "We were…"

And Agron, quite unhelpfully, repeated, "Uh, we were…" He looked to Nasir, as if he'd somehow find what to say in that embarrassed, surprised expression. "We were… We were just…" Nothing came to him. He couldn't help it - his face split in a smile and he laughed. Ridiculous, the two of them being caught like misbehaving children, doing something they weren't supposed to. Nasir laughed in turn, and it drew a smile from the woman.

"Take to your bed," she said, a knowing look in her eyes. "I will assume watch over Ilithyia."

This woman was from the gods. Agron decided in that moment. With another glance at Nasir, he nodded in the direction of the exit, sending the Syrian on his way. The gladiator couldn't believe his fucking luck - that they should have this burden lifted from them and given permission to go do as they had planned. Agron turned and started down the corridor, but paused and turned to put his hand on Mira's shoulder. "Gratitude," he said with a secret grin, his eyes downcast, and with that, took the same path Nasir had to their bed.

And on that path, a trail of clothing was left. Agron came upon the first piece and picked it up before realizing it was Nasir's coat. Biting his bottom lip, Agron moved more quickly through the corridor, retrieving each piece of clothing as he went, and when finally he came to their bed, Nasir lay in it on his stomach, naked as the day he'd come into the world. Agron threw aside the clothes in his hands carelessly and strode forward, lowering himself onto the bedroll between Nasir legs. The Syrian stirred at the added weight, lifted himself up onto his elbows and looked over his shoulder at Agron, but the gladiator didn't meet his gaze. No, he was too busy watching his own hands as they slid up the back of Nasir's thighs.

With a grin and a growl, Agron leaned down and playfully sank his teeth into the flesh of Nasir's ass. A laugh escaped the Syrian, but it wasn't long before it was chased away by a low, sweet sound of pleasure. Agron's hands had moved to Nasir's ass, pressing against and squeezing it, and his mouth was otherwise occupied; he dragged his tongue slowly over the man's spine, and as he traveled up, his body slid against the other man's.

The scarce lamplight cast shadows over them. Agron wanted to find what was in the dark parts of the Syrian, taste what the light didn't reach, see if skin illuminated felt warmer under his lips. The gladiator's hands slid over Nasir's sides, lingering in the slight curve of his waist before fingertips mapped the ribs that revealed themselves as the Syrian stretched underneath the attention. That movement rubbed their bodies together and Agron was suddenly very aware that he was still clothed while Nasir was not, and that was a grievous crime. But he couldn't pull himself away quite yet. Not while Nasir was tilting his head back to make way for the gladiator's mouth. Not while Agron could still draw gentle moans from the other man with lips wrapped around a soft earlobe and tongue tracing its shape.

But Nasir was impatient. He turned around underneath Agron to lay on his back and press his hands against the gladiator's chest, and Agron would have taken the time to explore the front of him just as thoroughly as the back if the Syrian hadn't been pushing him, urging him to rise. "Stand," Nasir whispered, though there was a demand in his voice. Agron obeyed and looked down to watch as Nasir pulled the clothing from him, eager to find what was concealed. And when he did, he was quick to reach out and touch. His fingers closed around Agron's length and the gladiator made a short, pleased sound. Not long after he felt the touch of Nasir's lips on his flesh and his breath left him in a rush. So soft and warm and tight when they wrapped around him.

Nasir's mouth began to move at a fast pace. There was no build-up, no teasing; he swallowed Agron's flesh and seemed insistent on bringing pleasure to the gladiator as quickly as possible. In little time, Agron could feel his self-control slipping away so he reached out for it, grasping fingers finding Nasir's hair and staying his tormenting mouth. "Slowly," he said, looking down to meet the Syrian's dark gaze. Ever-stubborn, Nasir tried to resume that pace, but Agron's grip on his hair prevented it. With that grip, Agron began to guide Nasir's mouth. This was no longer the heated, rushed encounter in the hallway as they stood guard. They had the entire night to indulge, and Agron wouldn't have it end too quickly. He'd made a promise what seemed like a lifetime ago - that he would show Nasir how he felt slowly and thoroughly, and it was a promise he would keep, now that the time had finally come.

How easy it was to get lost in the things Nasir did with his lips and his tongue. Soon Agron had to tug on that hair again, this time pulling the other man's mouth away entirely. Agron lowered himself to the floor and knelt in front of Nasir. He drew the Syrian into his arms, and when they kissed, they also shared a pleased noise at the feeling of their bodies touching without any clothing to separate them.

Agron was breathless when the kiss ended. "Lay down," he said with a smile, and then shuffled on his knees to where he kept all of his belongings. He began digging through them, searching for something in particular.

"What are you doing?" Nasir asked, drawing Agron's gaze to him. The Syrian was on his side, his lean body on beautiful display, and it was all Agron could do not to abandon everything and take him right in that moment. He managed to refrain, and after a pause he remembered Nasir's inquiry.

Instead of answering, though, Agron composed himself and grinned. "On your stomach, little man," was his next order, and Nasir complied, though he did so with narrowed eyes, of course having noticed that his question had gotten no reply - and when he rolled over, Agron couldn't help but reach out and playfully smack his rear. Nasir's suspicious expression melted away with surprised laughter, and Agron continued in his search.

Soon, his fingers closed around a vial. Hiding it in his hand, he crawled back over to Nasir, straddling him and sitting on the back of his thighs. Before continuing, Agron leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against the back of the other man's shoulder. "Now relax," he said, grazing the same skin he'd kissed with his teeth and then sitting up once more. Agron uncorked the vial and tilted it, and from its neck poured an oil. It fell between Nasir's shoulder blades first, and the Syrian jumped at the sensation, glancing behind at what was happening. Agron hadn't the presence of mind to tell the other man to turn back around; he was far too distracted by the way the oil slid down over Nasir's skin and pooled at the small of his back.

The vial was abandoned. Agron dragged his fingers through the oil, coating his hands in it and sliding them over Nasir's back. The Syrian's dark skin glistened, captured the flickering lamplight in a beautiful display, and Agron could have spent hours just _touching_ him. But there were more pressing matters to attend to. Just as Agron had told him to, Nasir was relaxing underneath the gladiator's hands, and he only ever moved to sigh a happy sigh or stretch underneath the touch to encourage it. That was, until Agron's hands ventured downwards.

Because the oil had another purpose. It would ease the way, would make Nasir slick and ready for when the gladiator delved inside of him. There was little warning; Agron's fingertips pushed against that opening, teased it, pressed at it only to withdraw and then do it all again. The gladiator could see that Nasir's breath was coming faster; his back rose and fell with it, and every once in a while, a gasp escaped him. Agron's free hand still explored, sometimes tracing the bumps along Nasir's spine and sometimes caressing the curve of his ass. The Syrian parted his lips and started to speak, started to beg, and that was when Agron finally pushed his fingers inside. Whatever words Nasir had meant to speak turned into a breathless moan.

The rhythm was slow. Excruciatingly slow. Nasir's hips moved underneath Agron and he pushed back against those fingers in an attempt to pick up the pace, but the gladiator was determined to set the speed. He would control it and he would give it to Nasir faster when he thought it time to do so. It wasn't in that moment. No, because the Syrian hadn't yet come undone.

It wasn't long until he did, though. Nasir clutched at the blankets underneath him and buried his face in them, muffling the long, low, frustrated moan that was pulled from his throat. And then he said something, but it got lost in the folds of cloth. Agron leaned over the other man, though his fingers were still exploring and stretching him. "Say again, little man?" he said in a low voice, nudging Nasir's hair away from the back of his neck and pressing a kiss against the skin revealed. Again, those muffled words were lost to Agron. "Again," he repeated, and this time gently sank his teeth into the Syrian's skin.

"Faster," Nasir finally gasped, turning his head to the side. His eyes were tightly closed and his hands still clutched and pulled at the blankets. "Your touch drives me to madness."

And so Agron obliged him. The gladiator slid his mouth to Nasir's jaw, dragged along it before luring the other man's lips to his. Nasir twisted his upper half and pressed hard against the kiss and it was in that moment Agron abandoned the slow, leisurely pace. He pushed harder, delved deeper, and it wasn't long before Nasir could no longer kiss the gladiator; he could only cry out into the mouth pressed against his own, and Agron happily swallowed each and every sound, the very last one a protesting whimper when he withdrew his fingers from inside of Nasir.

But it was a protest short-lived. Gently, Agron helped Nasir to turn around and lay on his back; he would look into the Syrian's eyes when first he entered him. The gladiator used oil-slicked hands to stroke his own flesh, covering it in the fluid, readying it - and he was about to position himself to push inside of Nasir when suddenly he found himself on his back, the other man on top of him. There was a second of pure shock, and then Agron grinned. Nasir returned it in kind. "I have waited long enough," the Syrian said, reaching behind himself and wrapping his fingers tightly around Agron's length. The gladiator bowed his back, grabbing onto Nasir's hips as the tip of his cock was pressed against that opening. His grip tightened to the verge of bruising as the Syrian lowered himself onto it.

Their gazes were intent on one another. Agron had to fight the urge to close his eyes and throw his head back in pleasure, and the struggle showed on his face. He'd imagined this moment for so long. He touched himself thinking of it. But none of his imaginings even compared to the tight heat, to the pure fucking bliss that it was to feel Nasir wrapped tightly around him. Inch by inch, Agron's length disappeared inside of the other man, and every passing inch brought forth new gasps, new moans, new whimpers from both men. And when finally the gladiator was buried within his Syrian, they crashed together in a kiss, Agron sitting up and Nasir leaning down in the very same moment. Their arms wrapped tightly around one another and only when they had to pull away from the kiss to breathe did they begin to move.

It started slowly. Nasir still adjusted to Agron's length, his body gradually becoming more accustomed to it. But as time passed, the gladiator more easily slid inside of the other man, and the pace increased. They still held onto one another, still clung and breathed the very same air with their lips not an inch apart and their foreheads pressed together. Nasir rode Agron and with each thrust brought himself down harder on that length. _Harder_ and _harder_ until each time their bodies met Nasir let out a sharp groan and Agron struggled to catch his breath.

But Agron wanted to move. He wanted to do more than sit and watch as Nasir rode him, however wonderful a sight that was. Tightening his arms around the Syrian, Agron laid back onto their bed. He used his grip to pull Nasir forward slightly and then braced his heels against the floor, thrusting his hips up to slide his length back inside the other man. A short, breathless, surprised moan fell from Nasir's lips, and another when Agron thrust his hips up again, and again, and again. Nasir's hands, previously trapped between them, slid up over Agron's chest and his neck and into his hair, nails digging in slightly and fingers pulling the gladiator's lips into a desperate kiss. The kiss held even as Agron rolled the two over, the Syrian once again on his back on the floor and the gladiator above him. The rhythm of their bodies joining barely broke; the thrusting continued just the same: fast and deep.

Nasir broke from the kiss, tilted his head back, and Agron's lips dragged down over his chin and his neck, tasting the skin there. Every last gasp and moan from Nasir's throat vibrated against Agron's mouth, and it wasn't long before their numbers increased. Nasir's voice grew louder. Agron's pace was relentless; it gave the Syrian no time to breathe, no relief from the pleasure slowly building inside of him. The gladiator knew Nasir's release was near and he thrust toward it. He wanted it and he wanted to see it on the other man's expression, etched into every last plane and curve of his face.

A halted, shaking cry escaped Nasir's lips. Agron chased after it with his tongue and teeth, capturing the Syrian's bottom lip and tugging it into yet another kiss. But Nasir's body was tightening around Agron, his muscles tensing, and the gladiator couldn't miss what was to happen next. Pulling back from the kiss, he looked down for Nasir's face, but it was turned for him. Agron reached up and slid his hand into the other man's hair, cupped the back of his head, brought that dark gaze to his own. And when Nasir's release hit him, twisting his body and his features in pleasure, Agron was witness to it. More than that, he was marked by it as the Syrian's nails dragged over his back. The pain mingled seamlessly with pleasure.

Nasir's body trembling against his own drove Agron quickly toward his own release, one he'd been ignoring in favor of his Syrian's. But no longer. Every thrust pushed him closer to the edge, the impossible tightness of Nasir's body drawing it from him, until finally he came, a broken moan escaping him with every pulse of it. His hips did not cease their movement; they still pushed into Nasir with short, gentle thrusts, until the friction became too much and he had to pull away, though their bodies parting made them both gasp and hold fast to one another.

Agron lowered himself on top of Nasir, pressing his face against the man's collarbone as his muscles all relaxed, though once in a while one twitched briefly. They still touched one another, Nasir's fingers threading through Agron's hair and Agron's hand gliding over Nasir's side still slick with sweat and oil. With great effort, Agron lifted himself so their faces were once more level with one another, and after a few seconds of the two of them simply gazing at one another, both grinned slow, tired grins. Their lips touched in a gentle kiss, tongues lazily twining, and they tasted each other until sleep stole them away. Not another word passed between them that night, if only because everything had been spoken through their bodies: how good it had felt, how perfect it had been, and how they loved one another.

* * *

Agron pushed open the doors to the sanctuary and walked into it with hands empty. His blood rushed quickly through him; he heard it roaring in his ears and few other sounds penetrated them. The gladiator heard nothing of the questions asked by those surrounding him; he only sought to escape them all, to find a corner of the temple where he could be alone with his failings, but those that had been awaiting their return were insistent. A hand grabbed him by the arm and stopped him.

It was Nemetes. "Where are the weapons?" he asked. There was no malice behind the words, no tone meant to thrust blame upon Agron for the absence of sharpened steel, but still the gladiator threw off the German's hand as if the touch had meant to offend.

"There are no fucking weapons," he snapped, tasting his own blood in the words, and with that he ascended the stairs and disappeared into the temple, ignoring those that whispered and questioned and had been relying on the boon Agron and the others had gone to collect - a boon that none of them would see. He would leave it to Spartacus to explain to them all what had happened. Agron would not stay to see their disappointment.

The gladiator reached the makeshift room he and Nasir had created for themselves. Curtains had been hung to give them some privacy, some illusion that they could ever be alone, and Agron was glad for them then. They would keep away prying eye and wagging tongue. Falling heavily into a stool, Agron hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands.

There was one person those curtains wouldn't keep out. Agron needn't look up and meet Nasir's dark eyes; he'd heard the man's approach, had recognized the light footfalls - and who else would brave Agron's rage? Fingers slid into the gladiator's hair and a warm body stepped near, and for a split second Agron wanted to surrender to it - but his anger overcame that and he pushed Nasir away with a sigh and without lifting gaze to the Syrian's face.

But Nasir was stubborn. He reached out and, with a surprisingly strong grip, lifted Agron's face by the chin. Agron's blue eyes avoided him. "I will tend to wound," the Syrian said, and then turned to gather what he would need. Agron remained silent.

The Syrian lifted a jug of water and slowly poured some into a basin, then dipped a cut of cloth in the cool liquid, saturating it. As he worked, he spoke. "The exchange did not go as planned," he said, stating the painfully obvious fact. Finally, there was a vocal response from the gladiator, but it was only a scoff. No words passed his lips.

His actions spoke loudly and clearly, though, when Nasir moved to press dampened cloth against Agron's upper lip, from where blood had been slowly flowing; the gladiator smacked away that hand and glared miserably at it. He didn't need to be cleaned by gentle touch like a helpless babe. He didn't fucking need anything except for a wagon full of weapons - something Glaber had never meant to give them.

But to the gladiator's surprise, Nasir reached out again, this time with his other hand and to grab tightly onto Agron's chin, fingertips digging in to hold his face firmly in place. And then he lifted the cloth to start cleaning the blood that stained Agron's skin. There would be no more struggle from the German; he was a little too startled by the force Nasir implemented to properly protest. It was a strange contrast, how gentle the Syrian was in tending to Agron's wound and how rough he was in making sure the gladiator did not refuse the help.

"How did you come by these?" Nasir asked, referring to the injuries his face had suffered. Soon all the blood was washed away and only then did the hand on Agron's chin soften, moving to lightly stroke his jaw. The cloth went to another purpose, finding swelled bruises and soothing them with the cool water.

Agron clenched his jaw. It did nothing to lessen his pounding headache. "Glaber laid a trap," he said stiffly. "There were never any weapons in the cart. Only Ashur and his group of fucking monsters." Because that was what those things had been. Certainly not men. They had been things brought up from the underworld to undo them.

"Ashur," Nasir repeated. Agron looked up and saw that the other man's brows had drawn together. "The Syrian?"

The gladiator nodded once. "He apparently makes fucking home within Glaber's ass," he said, and whatever small part of him wasn't entirely overcome by rage was glad to see the troubled expression disappear from Nasir's dark features and be replaced with a small smile. But it was a fleeting happiness.

"Something else distracts thought to frustration," Nasir said knowingly. And how _did_ he always know? With one look he could understand Agron's mind better than the gladiator could himself. With one touch the Syrian could know what ailed Agron, and with one more could chase the pain from body. It was something Agron should have been thankful for, but he felt no gratitude in that moment. He was too troubled by his own failure.

"I could not best them," he revealed, shaking his head. "Not a single blow landed. They remained untouched and I…" With a short, humorless laugh, he gestured to his own face. "I suffer this."

It was a humiliating things to admit aloud. He could have said it to no one but Nasir. He'd never felt like this before; so very beaten, so utterly defeated. He had been beaten in a fight before, yes, but never so thoroughly. At least in those other instances he'd done some damage himself, but this time? This time he'd done nothing. Had it not been for the others, for Spartacus and for Lucius and Mira, who stood by with bows, he surely would have been dead. Grateful though he was that they had saved his life, he wished they hadn't been forced to.

Nasir took Agron's face in his hands. "That you returned at all is a victory," he said kindly. "This is not the arena. It was never only you against them."

"But if I had—" Agron started, but gentle fingertips on his lips stayed the flow of words.

Fingertips traced along the curve of Agron's lips. "There are more battles to be fought," the Syrian said. "Put this one behind you and look forward to the next." It was sound advice. That, Agron knew. But he would linger longer than that on what had happened. He very well could linger until the next time he faced those men and came out victorious.

Though he was gone from the arena, some of the gladiator remained.

Still, he nodded his understanding, and in that small gesture felt some of his frustration disappear. Nasir smiled and leaned down to bump his forehead against Agron's, but when he stood again there was a thoughtful look on his face. "Hmmm," he intoned, tilting his head to the side and letting his wandering fingertips flutter down over Agron's neck, his fingers tangled in the leather cord wrapped around it.

"What is it?" Agron asked.

Playfully, Nasir tugged at the cord, and a mischievous glint came into his eyes. "Perhaps you should more often face me in a fight," he said in a teasing tone, "so that you may more intimately know the taste of defeat. Then it may lose its bitterness over time."

For a split second, Agron's abated anger flared up again - but then his face spit into a grin. A laugh bubbled to his lips and escaped him, and with that, his entire countenance changed. If the gladiator only knew how expertly Nasir played him. The Syrian needed only to pluck a single string to make Agron sing. And sing he did.

Nasir spoke over the laughter. "You laugh only to hide trembling fear," he said, pulling harder on the leather cord and stepping forward to straddle Agron where he sat. The gladiator's arms wrapped automatically around the other man, roughly pulling that body against his own.

"I laugh," Agron teased in return, "because a little pup just bared his teeth at a wolf."

It was in that moment that Agron realized the dangerous ground on which he tread. There was an impish smile on Nasir's face and his dark eyes narrowed - and then, suddenly, the gladiator was pushed backwards off the stool. He landed hard on his back and Nasir's weight came down on top of him, robbing him of breath. The Syrian grabbed for Agron's wrists, no doubt meaning to pin them to the floor and claim victory, but the gladiator wouldn't be so easily defeated.

And suddenly they turned into children, laughing and yelling in voices swelled with mirth. Agron's troubles were forgotten, if only for a little while, and that was a kindness. One Nasir had knowingly provided.

Agron tugged his wrists from Nasir's grip and pulled the man into a tight embrace, pinning his arms against his body. The Syrian struggled and finally broke Agron's hold but then, with a growl, the gladiator rolled the both of them over, capturing both of Nasir's hands and holding them against the stone floor beneath them. The little pup's legs kicked and kicked as he tried once more to escape Agron's hold, but it was no use. Soon, Nasir gave up and lay against the floor in defeat, breathing hard. Agron looked down at him, his grin bright and gloating. The poor gladiator should have seen the devilish curling of the corners of Nasir's mouth, but he was too distracted by the legs that slowly wrapped around him.

"Come, champion," the Syrian purred. "Claim your reward."

And so Agron leaned down to steal a kiss from Nasir's lips. At first, the other man responded in kind, drawing Agron deeper and deeper into it - and then the Syrian sank his teeth into Agron's bottom lip enough to draw blood and a short cry of pain from him. And then they were tumbling around on the floor once again in a power struggle and despite the injury Agron had suffered, his still laughed. In fact, he laughed even harder as his lip throbbed, fucking charmed by how devious Nasir was. Charmed, yes, but he would show the man no mercy.

Their horseplay took them to the edges of their makeshift room and, as Agron fought to once more come out on top of Nasir, one of the curtains caught under the Syrian's body so that when Agron finally rolled to the side, he brought the curtain down on top of them. It was a chain reaction; one of the hanging cloths came down and the rest followed, draping over their struggling bodies and all of their belongings. Finally, when the last curtain fluttered to the floor, Agron and Nasir both stilled. A beat of absolute silence and then they roared with yet more laughter. Agron, weakened by his amusement, surrendered and fell to the floor beside Nasir, struggling to catch his breath.

It was a moment before the two of them calmed down. Slowly, Nasir climbed on top of Agron, but the fight was gone from them both. The Syrian leaned down and pressed an apologetic kiss against Agron's wounded bottom lip before drawing it into his mouth and gently, gently sucking on it. A thrill shot through Agron's body and he closed his eyes, then lifted himself up onto his elbows to kiss the other man. It was a peaceful end to a great struggle.

Nasir pulled away from the kiss with a breathless gasp, lifting his hands and gently taking Agron's face in them. "How do you find the taste of defeat?" he whispered against the gladiator's mouth, which gradually curled in a grin.

"Sweet," Agron answered, and then tasted it again, content to forget his troubles for just a little while longer.


	6. Chapter 6

The doors to the sanctuary opened and Agron strode in, arms full of skins of wine. Behind him trailed two of the other men, their hands similarly burdened by jugs and bottles of the stuff. The cart they'd ransacked stood just outside the sanctuary's wall, now stripped of its contents. It was good for the gladiator to return to camp with palms overflowing rather than out-turned and empty. Lifting blue eyes to all those that had turned to stare at him, he raised an arm and put on display his bounty. "Fetch fucking cups," he announced, "and see them filled to brimming!" His words drew a cheer from the crowd and all moved to do as commanded, eager to taste sweet wine on their lips after too long without it. Agron tossed several of the skins to those who stood nearby and then helped to fill cups thrust toward him.

Soon all were drinking their fill. All except, perhaps, for one. Agron had expected the Syrian among them standing in front of him, hand outstretched and waiting for wine, but there had been no sign of him. The gladiator weaved through the crowd in the courtyard in search of Nasir, but the man was nowhere to be found. Brow furrowed, Agron started toward the interior of the temple - but then he thought better of it and turned, lifting his gaze toward the sky. And there, silhouetted against it, was his Syrian.

Agron's feet took him swiftly toward the wall and he climbed it, though progress was slow; he was burdened by two skins of wine and two cups, one already full and the other waiting for Nasir. When Agron reached the Syrian, he offered the cup, but Nasir didn't take it. Instead, he only glanced at the gladiator before looking back toward the long expanse of forest before them. Agron followed his gaze but found nothing of real interest amongst the endless trees.

"We have no need of a watchman now," the gladiator then said, shifting his gaze back to Nasir's face. "Come off the wall and take drink with the rest." Agron attempted to press the empty cup into Nasir's hand but it was brushed away, and the Syrian let out a frustrated sound, briefly baring his teeth. Perhaps it was the wine flowing through him that made Agron smile at the act of defiance, or maybe he simply liked being reminded of the little wild dog Nasir had once been. Still was, if not slightly tamed.

It was obvious that Nasir was still bothered by what had happened earlier in the day. "Turn thoughts from the morning's events," Agron urged the other man. "All others have." The gladiator sat on the wall beside Nasir, then, since it was clear the Syrian wouldn't be joining the group below anytime soon. There was silence between them for a moment and Agron waited patiently, for he knew the Syrian wouldn't keep lips tightly shut forever. He was proved right quickly enough when Nasir turned to look at him, a drawn expression upon his features. The moment that look appeared on the other man's face, Agron wanted to see it gone and replaced with happiness. The same happiness as on everyone else's faces as they partook of the wine Agron had provided.

But there was a weight upon Nasir's shoulders that needed lifting. "I am finally set to task after healing from grievous wound," he said, "but the moment my use comes to test, I fail."

"And I slumbered as Spartacus and the others crept upon us," Agron said. "The fault does not fall on any one man. None were prepared." The gladiator lifted his cup and sipped from it. He, too, had been frustrated by the fact that Spartacus had so easily infiltrated the sanctuary, but his disappointment had fled as soon as the wine had started flowing. For now, worry was supposed to be pushed aside in favor of more pleasant things. That had been Spartacus's intention in sending Agron to steal a cart from the road, had it not?

"Had I not been immediately brought down, I could have raised alarm," Nasir argued, intent on blaming himself. Though not all of it. "And if Lugo hadn't taken to fucking dreams." The Syrian's glanced down toward the crowd, at the German who was drinking his fill, and loudly. There was still bad blood between them, it seemed. "I had opportunity to prove myself and I let it slip through idle fingers."

Agron's cup and the skins of wine were abandoned there on the edge of the wall, forgotten for the moment. The gladiator reached out and, with an unforgiving and commanding grip, took Nasir's chin in hand, forcing the Syrian's eyes to his own. "Prove yourself?" he asked, his tone almost dangerous. "There is not a man among us that questions your loyalty or your place in the rebellion." When Nasir's eyes began to skirt away, the gladiator lowered his head and held that gaze. "None but you."

"I have past transgressions to—" Nasir began, but Agron interrupted.

"Transgressions paid for in kind," the gladiator said. The hand on Nasir's chin dropped to the man's side, where just-healed wound laid. "In blood and pain." His fingertips traced the outline of that scar, and only touching it reminded him of those days of torture in which he'd had no idea whether or not Nasir was for the afterlife. He couldn't imagine what the Syrian had been through, hovering on the edge of death as he'd been.

Nasir lowered his eyes to Agron's touch. The gladiator wondered what it was like, to bear such a scar. Sometimes he saw Nasir's fingers flutter to it, touching it lightly as if remembering the pain. In those moments, Agron would distract him with a kiss or with wandering hands to chase away the memory. There were few among them that had suffered so and lived to tell about it. Oenomaus was one. Crixus, another. And Nasir was counted with them as a man who had come back from the dead. A thing for which Nasir deserved credit, though he gave none to himself.

"The fucking Gaul—" Nasir began, and Agron had to grin. His Syrian was beginning to sound like him. "—seems to think me nothing more than your pet."

Agron recalled Crixus's comment about Nasir being his 'boy', but knew better than to think of it as criticism for the Syrian. "Crixus has no love for me," Agron said, turning his gaze to the courtyard. There, he could see the Gaul with his woman. "Which means he will have no love for things close to my own heart." His attention shifted back to Nasir, and the gladiator lifted a hand to chuck him under the chin. "He raised voice only to speak against me. Not to bring any failing on your part to light."

There, finally, was the slightest of grins on Nasir's face. Though it appeared and was gone in seconds, Agron was still happy to have reassured the other man, if only for a moment. But the Syrian returned quickly to his woes. "Lugo is more at fault than I," he said, and in that made the two sound like quarreling siblings. "He took to slumber. I turned away for only a moment."

"Nasir." Agron reached out and took the man's face in his hands. "Think no more of it. Come drink wine with us. I would see you smile again." With his thumbs, Agron gently caressed Nasir's cheekbones. "And if ever anyone questions your part in this rebellion, only remind yourself of the sacrifice made and take comfort. Few have given more for this cause."

Spartacus had lost a wife. Agron had lost a brother. Some had lost friends. Others had made the ultimate sacrifice in giving their lives. Nasir had almost suffered that same fate, so how could any doubt him? And how could he doubt himself?

The Syrian leaned into Agron's touch and briefly closed his eyes. The gladiator had to wonder what Nasir was thinking in that moment. Perhaps wine would loosen his tongue and see worry given words, or else it would chase away troubles if only for a little while. All Nasir had to do was agree. And agree he did, giving a short nod of his head. Agron ginned a triumphant grin and grabbed the empty cup he'd brought for Nasir, handing it over to the other man. When Nasir finally accepted it, Agron filled it before taking up his own cup, and the two drank deeply.

After a moment, Agron lowered his cup. "Come," he said, and began to move off the wall. But he was stopped before he could get far. Nasir reached out with his free hand and grasped Agron's upper arm, and then used his grip to pull the gladiator into a kiss. It was sweet like the wine that had just touched their lips and Agron couldn't help but melt into it, groping blindly to put his cup on the top of the wall so he could wrap his arms around the other man. And so they embraced one another, forgetting about the wine and the plans they'd had to climb down from their perch, and it wasn't until a shout came from below - one in Saxa's voice and in the German tongue - of, " _Will you fuck on the wall and give us a show?_ " that they pulled apart, Agron laughing as he did so.

The two gathered their things, then, and moved to join the rest, and soon, Nasir would have his chance to prove himself in combat, when Spartacus's reasons for providing them all with wine were revealed.

* * *

Nasir turned the skin of wine in his hand upside down over his cup in an attempt to drain it of its remaining precious drops. "The last of it," he said mournfully, and there were howls of disapproval from those around him. They had been drinking since the afternoon, and the sun was only just disappearing beneath the horizon. Nasir lifted the cup in salute to the others and then tilted his head back, tipping the liquid into his waiting mouth. It was all done with very little grace; he stumbled slightly where he stood and though he was in danger of falling over, he managed to make sure he didn't spill a single drop. When he was done, the Syrian carelessly abandoned his cup on the stairs that led into the sanctuary, needing it no longer.

When he regained his balance, his gaze slid over those surrounding him. He looked for one man in particular. It wasn't long before searching eyes found what they desired; Agron was just within the temple at the far end of the wide front corridor, leaning against a table among some of his German kin. Nasir simply observed for a moment, a smile playing over his lips as he watched Agron grin and throw his head back in laughter. It was a simply joy, seeing the one he loved so happy. He would see the gladiator overcome with such happiness.

The Syrian took leave of his companions and started toward Agron, his eyes never leaving the man's face. Perhaps it was the wine that made him so bold, but he didn't hesitate in pushing through the crowd of Germans and reaching out to tangle his fingers in the leather cord wrapped around the gladiator's neck. Agron's gaze shifted and his smile brightened, and he parted his lips to, perhaps, say Nasir's name, but the Syrian didn't allow it. Instead, he used his grip on the cord to pull Agron forward and claimed that mouth in a kiss that tasted like wine, and any noise that had been meaning to escape the gladiator was muffled.

The smile on Agron's face disappeared against Nasir's mouth and he was still for a moment. He moved beyond his surprise soon enough, though, and slid his arms around the other man, wasting no time in grabbing onto the flesh of his ass. The wine made them both bold, it seemed. Only when Nasir needed to gasp for breath did he pull away, but he didn't go far. No, his lips hovered nearby and made way for teasing, biting teeth - teeth that gently took Agron's upper lip between them and tugged. The soft rush of air that escaped the gladiator, a sigh bordering on a moan, chased away the last shred of control Nasir might have had, though he'd never cared to grasp onto it.

Without further ado, and amidst the typical hollering of Agron's German kin, Nasir led the gladiator away, eased him along with the grip he had on that leather cord. The Syrian heard no protest from the other man, nor had he expected to; the evening had been full of touches secret and heated, spurred on by the surge of wine through their bodies. This had always been the intended ending to the night; Nasir had only hastened it, his desire to feel Agron against him too great to ignore. The moment they were within the shadows of the sanctuary, they were wrapped up in one another, mouths crashing together and tongues tasting the remnants of that precious drink on the other's lips.

They were on the path to their own bed, but Nasir was impatient. He cared nothing for the soft blankets they would have beneath them, nothing for the comfort of the home they'd made for themselves; all he could feel was hot skin against his own, and he wanted more of it. With some force, the Syrian pushed Agron away from him and against the wall, but followed quickly to kiss him again, his hands wandering and tugging at clothes, eager to see them gone. The gladiator's fingers fingers slid into Nasir's hair and a shiver ran the length of the Syrian's spine - and he followed it down.

Lips pressed against Agron's neck, kissing it around the leather cord there, perhaps an apology for using the necklace to pull the gladiator along; they moved lower and tasted Agron's collarbone, grazing it with fleeting teeth; they descended further and captured the man's nipple, touching teasing tongue to it - and that's when a shock of pleasure shot through Agron's body. The gladiator's fingers curled in Nasir's hair and his back arched, and he pushed himself closer to the Syrian's mouth. Agron tugged slightly on Nasir's hair, though, to perhaps pull him back into another kiss, but the Syrian was nothing if not stubborn. He remained where he was, giving the now pebbled flesh the attention it deserved, and there was still more for him to taste. He got onto his knees.

" _Nasir_ ," Agron whispered, voice strained as the man trailed his mouth down the middle of the other's stomach, lips catching and dragging on that warm skin. Whether the name was spoken as protest for him to stop or a plea for him to go on, the Syrian didn't know, but that didn't matter; Nasir made quick work of the clothing that remained on Agron's body and let it fall to the stone floor beneath them, leaving the gladiator gloriously naked and stretched there against the wall like a meal. And Nasir would take his fill.

Agron tasted better than any wine. Nasir's tongue swept over his hipbone, teeth following to mark the stretch of skin there. As his mouth wandered so did his hand, and his fingers found the gladiator's length and wrapped around it. Slowly, he began to stroke, in time with slow kisses that skirted lower and lower. The gladiator's breath was coming faster and the fingers in Nasir's hair flexed, encouraging that descent. The Syrian's lips had a clear destination and Agron would see them to their purpose. No matter that they were in a corridor where any could come upon them in the midst of their passion; both now had a hunger that needed to be sated and nothing would get in the way of it.

Nasir's hot breath washed over the hardening flesh he held in his palm and the resulting shiver that ran through Agron's body brought a smile to the Syrian's lips. The poor gladiator had suffered long enough; Nasir took Agron's length into his mouth, closing his lips tightly around it and pressing the flat of his tongue against that sensitive head. A long groan was pulled from Agron's throat but caught when Nasir suddenly pressed forward, taking more of that flesh into his mouth without warning. The gladiator's hips rocked forward and Nasir allowed it, letting the length slide even deeper until not an inch of it had been left untouched by the tight, wet heat of his mouth.

And so he pulled back and pushed forward again. And again. And again, until Agron could do nothing but moan. Nasir's hands drifted up over the man's torso, nails dragging lightly over his stomach and the muscles that tensed every time the gladiator pitched his hips forward. He would have stayed on his knees and worshiped the body before him forever - but Agron, with a hissing sigh, pulled Nasir's mouth away and, with his grip on the Syrian's hair, lifted him to his feet and pushed him roughly against the opposite wall of the corridor. Nasir's breath left him in a rush, surprised to have been so handled, but he did not protest, no; instead, he welcomed the searing, hard kiss that was pressed against his lips and returned it in kind.

Abruptly, Nasir found his feet lifted up off the floor. Agron's hands had grabbed onto the backs of Nasir's thighs and pulled both legs around his waist. Now those hands wandered to the Syrian's rear, squeezing the flesh there, making Nasir break away from the kiss and gasp, his head falling back. The gladiator surged forward, taking advantage of the neck that had been exposed to him; he tasted it, kissed it, bit it, and the attention raised goosebumps on Nasir's skin. They moved desperately against each other, Agron's naked body finding friction against Nasir's cruelly clothed one - and as good as it felt to be at the mercy of the gladiator's battle-roughened hands, as good as it felt to have his long body pressed so close, Nasir missed the control he'd so briefly had. So he moved to claim it again.

The Syrian wriggled out of Agron's grip and, again, shoved Agron away from him. When the gladiator let out a growl and started forward again, Nasir stopped him, only lifting his hand - and then there, against the wall, he started to strip himself of his clothing, gaze intent on the other man's face. How Nasir loved watching as those eyes slid over him, hungrily taking in the skin that was slowly revealed when, first, his coat fell to the floor. Nasir's hands dropped to his waistband and there his fingertips teased, pulling his pants down ever-so-slowly over his hips… but then he stopped. And he watched as Agron's gaze went from hungry to confused. And he grinned when that questioning gaze lifted to his face.

Before Agron could find voice to question, Nasir disappeared down the corridor, leaving the gladiator where he stood. The poor man was dumbfounded for a moment before he briskly followed, and the two of them left the clothes they'd discarded there on the sanctuary floor. There were more important things to tend to. Nasir swayed slightly as he fled through the hallway, drunk on the wine that had passed his lips and the kisses that had been pressed against them, and he wondered if maybe he taken a wrong turn before he reached the corner of the temple he and Agron called home. The gladiator wasn't far behind, though he kept his distance, not trusting Nasir not to flit away and out of reach again like a bird out of his cage.

But how inviting the Syrian was being. He looked at Agron over his shoulder as he slowly slid his pants off of his hips, letting them fall to the floor before he stepped out of them. The gladiator could only resist such tempting flesh for so long; he stepped forward slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, and only when his hands finally touched Nasir's hips did he grab on and, for the second time, the Syrian was pushed against a nearby wall. But unlike before, there was now no clothing to separate them; it was only flesh on flesh, and it was taken advantage of. Nasir thrust himself back against the other man, parted his lips in a shaky exhale when he felt hard length pressed against his body. He wanted it inside of him and he would make it so.

Lifting his hand to his own mouth, he wet his fingers with his tongue and reached behind him, fully prepared to make himself ready for Agron to enter him. But before he could do so, before he could even touch himself, both of his hands were grabbed and pinned behind him at the small of his back. He let out a short sound of surprise and struggled against Agron's grip, but he was in no great position to break from it; instead, he remained pressed against the wall and now at the mercy of whatever Agron wished.

There was a soft, breathless chuckle at his ear, and the sound sent a shiver through him. "Part your lips," came the gladiator's voice, and Nasir obeyed. Again, there were fingertips brushing his lips, but they were not his own. They hovered so very close and remained just out of reach until Nasir coaxed them into his mouth with his tongue. Those fingers moved between his lips in a torturous mimicry of the work they'd soon be put to and the worst part was that Nasir couldn't beg. No, he could only moan around the digits as he tasted them, and that wasn't enough.

But he didn't have to wait long before Agron pulled away and used his newly-slickened fingers for what they were intended. Nasir's wrists were freed and there was a welcome ache in his shoulders as he pressed his palms against the wall. The gladiator's free hand slid down Nasir's back, tracing his spine until reaching the small of it and pushing, making the man arch and tip his hips backwards. And once the Syrian was positioned to his liking, Agron pressed his fingers against the man's opening and, at once, slid two of them inside.

The sudden intrusion drew halting sounds from Nasir's throat and he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the wall. Agron leaned forward and dragged parted lips over the Syrian's shoulder as he pushed forward and deeper, stretching and preparing the man's body, letting it adjust. It seemed a lifetime before the fingers began to retreat again, and longer still before they thrust into him again. But they looked to do more than just that. Agron curled his fingers, brushed them against the spot inside of Nasir that stole the breath from him. Perhaps this was revenge for the teasing the Syrian had done because underneath Agron's touch he was left trembling and whimpering as Agron had been under the assault of Nasir's mouth.

Soon, Agron's fingers moved more freely, sliding smoothly in and out of Nasir's body and picking up speed. A steady stream of moans escaped the Syrian; he pushed away from the wall and bent at the waist in an attempt to take some control of the pace, in an attempt to take those fingers farther inside of him, but Agron had none of it. No, he wrapped his free arm around the man and held the smaller body against his own, and Nasir was helpless as, again and again, the fingers teased at that bundle of nerves and reduced him to a shuddering, shaking mass of flesh.

And then, when those fingers abruptly disappeared from inside of him, Nasir leaned heavily against Agron and attempted to catch his breath. He mourned the loss of those pumping digits but he was desperate for more, desperate to have Agron inside of him after all of that. Gathering his strength, Nasir turned in the gladiator's arms and faced him, sliding his hand around the back of the man's neck and tugging him forcefully into a kiss. This, he would not be denied. Nor was he. Agron wrapped his arms around the Syrian in return and urged him backwards until he hit the table that stood in the corner. Nasir, in a rash display of impatience, pulled away from the kiss and turned just enough to push everything off the table, sending it all clattering to the floor, and then jumped on top of it, pulling Agron close and wrapping his legs around the gladiator's waist. "Now," was the only word he said. Nasir would wait no longer.

Agron grabbed onto Nasir's thighs and tugged the man's ass to the edge of the table and then, finally, entered him. There was no ceremony. No more teasing. The gladiator pushed his hips forward and was buried to the hilt, and Nasir arched off the table with a long moan. Agron remained standing, just out of reach, so the Syrian's hands pressed against the tabletop and his nails dug into the wood, and the entire thing rocked when Agron began to thrust. It knocked against the wall in a rhythmic beat and in harmony with the sound of their bodies pounding against each other - and the entire song was punctuated with gasps, with moans, with whimpers of their names.

The need to _move_ rose within Nasir. He wanted to meet those thrusts, wanted put the weight of his body into every single one of them just as Agron did. The Syrian sat up, reached out and wrapped his arms around Agron to lift himself off the table, and it was like that - legs tight around the other man's waist and arms clinging around his neck - that he began to ride him. Agron did his part; his fingertips dug into the flesh of Nasir's ass and it was with that grip that he helped to lift the Syrian from his cock and then lower him back down, again and again. And when the strain of maintaining that speed became too much for them, Agron pushed Nasir's back against the wall again, and that's where they continued.

Nasir's fingers slid up into Agron's hair, his nails dragging over the man's scalp. Desperate lips searched for a kiss and soon found it, their mouths pushing hard enough together to bruise. Everything they did was with a little bit less grace. Was it their need for each other or the wine they'd poured down eager throats? Whatever the reason, there seemed no end to the intensity of it, no point at which it plateaued; instead, it built and built and never stopped, and wouldn't until they both were pushed over the edge that would bring them back to earth.

It was a moment that soon approached. Nasir was distracted from the kiss by the familiar tightening in his middle, the feeling of a string being pulled taut. His parted lips still pressed against Agron's mouth but he was gasping, his breath catching in short little moans that warned of the release coming upon him. Nasir's hand dropped between them both, fingers wrapping around his length and he stroked himself in time with the hips pulling back and thrusting against him. His head tilted back, mouth dragging over Agron's, and the gladiator captured the Syrian's bottom lip between his teeth, biting down. That was the thing that sent him over the edge: the tiniest bit of pain mixed in with the pleasure. Suddenly he was there and he was moaning and pressing his body closer to Agron's, clinging desperately, and thank the gods for the gladiator's grip on him because otherwise he might have fallen. His back bowed and he tugged his lip from those teeth just so he could bury his face against the other man's neck, and there he would try very hard to remember to breathe.

And as Nasir recovered, Agron began to pull away. But the Syrian didn't allow it. He tightened his legs, kept the gladiator in place, and when he found his voice, he spoke. "Finish inside of me," he said, and though his voice shook the words could be taken as nothing but an order. With that, Nasir claimed Agron's lips in yet another kiss, and the gladiator gently lowered them both to the floor, laying Nasir on his back. It was in that position that the gladiator began thrusting inside of him again. Slowly at first, but soon enough it regained its previous speed. Nasir's limbs were all wrapped tightly around Agron and it was with whimpers and moans that he coaxed the man closer and closer to his own release. He knew the gladiator's body; he could feel a familiar trembling and a familiar tension, and he tightened his muscles around the length still sliding in and out of him. A whispered plea to the gods escaped Agron's lips and he rocked himself harder against Nasir, faster before ceasing movement and spilling seed within him.

The Syrian tasted his gladiator's release, swallowing the sounds he made and kissing the lips so parted in pleasure. When Agron recovered, he answered the kisses with his own, and they were gentle. More tender kisses than they'd been before, but now their bodies were sated, their desires for one another satisfied. Agron pulled out of Nasir but didn't leave his embrace, wouldn't have been able to if he'd tried because the Syrian held on tightly, needing the warmth of the other man's body still against his own.

When Nasir opened his eyes to look at Agron, the gladiator's gaze was already fixed on him, and they exchanged a slow smile. Agron pressed his lips briefly against Nasir's before leaning to the side, as far as he could without fully parting himself from the other man, and he groped around on the floor to find something - a task made difficult, as everything that had once been on the table now littered their small living area. But Agron was back soon enough, and he held something up for Nasir to see. "To cool us," he said, and with his teeth uncorked the skin of wine.

Nasir had to laugh; leave it to the German to have a reserve of the stuff stashed away. But he was thankful for it. The Syrian opened his mouth and into it Agron poured the drink, and when next he leaned down for a kiss, Nasir's lips tasted as sweet as they had in the first one.

Only then, something came to sour the scene. Through the sanctuary rang the cry of, " _Romans!_ " It sobered all those soaked in wine and called Agron and Nasir from their bed, from each other's arms. Hands no longer wandered over warm skin, no longer glided over curves long since memorized; instead, they hastily pulled on clothes and found cold steel. They had the both of them been waiting for this moment, when they could raise their swords against the Romans, but somehow it seemed fast upon them, too quickly come after they had lain with one another.

But before they left the corner of the sanctuary they'd made their own, Agron sheathed his sword. He bent and from the stone floor picked up a length of red cloth. It was worn and fading and slightly fraying, but it wasn't something to be left behind. So the gladiator reached and and took up the Syrian's wrist and wrapped it in the red cloth, and it looked at home there, where it had spent so long. No words were exchanged. None were needed. Agron only pressed his lips to Nasir's forehead in a kiss and, for a brief moment, closed his eyes.

And then they moved to Spartacus's side to face the armies of Rome.

* * *

Long had they been atop the mountain. The wind was bitterly cold and the terrain hard, unforgiving, and barren. Beneath them, at the foot of the mountain, Roman fires burned. The rebels were trapped and they were left wanting for the security the sanctuary had provided them and the bounty given them by the surrounding woods. It was all just out of their reach, but perhaps not for long. They would see themselves off the top of the mountain and be free of it either in victory or in death.

Every last rebel knelt on the mountain's peak, their hands tangled in vines, weaving them into thick and sturdy ropes. Not far away lay the body of Mira, who even in death was part of the rebellion. Every once in a while, Spartacus would stand from his work and kneel by her body, touching the vines that he'd so painstakingly wrapped around it - the same vines that had inspired the strategy they all now moved to execute. Agron would watch his leader as he knelt and though the German was sad for Mira's passing, he recognized it as a blessing. Because of her, no longer would they be cornered like rats, desperate and starving. No longer would any of them be driven to make the kind of mistake that had gotten Mira killed; instead, they would all go and meet their deaths as soldiers in this rebel army.

"Four ropes," a voice said, drawing Agron's attention away from Spartacus. The gladiator looked to the man who sat nearby and whose dark fingers intertwined the vines into something heavy and stable, strong enough to carry some weight. Agron had expected to meet the Syrian's eyes but instead they were downcast, entirely too concentrated on the task before them. His eyebrows drew together just slightly. Agron was looking closely enough to notice.

The gladiator replied with a simple, "Yes." It was his only answer and only spoken to coax what troubled Nasir from him.

"Four ropes," the Syrian repeated. "For four men. Spartacus," he began to list, glancing toward each rebel in turn. "Crixus, Gannicus…" Then Nasir's gaze fell on Agron. "And you." Agron wanted to lean forward and smooth the line that had appeared between Nasir's eyes with a kiss, but he refrained. The Syrian might need more than just that chaste kiss to chase worry away.

"Spartacus has made no order yet," Agron returned, though it would have been just as useful to stay silent in that regard. The Thracian had not yet asked those Nasir had listed to accompany him down the ropes and on top of the Romans, but he would. This, the three other men knew. This, Nasir had deduced, but Agron didn't have the heart to say that the deduction was a sound one. They were the most trusted of the rebels and some of the best fighters. They were all brothers, two of which had started this rebellion with Spartacus himself and one that had trained on the very same sands as the Thracian. Who else but them would descend those ropes by their leader's side?

Nasir turned his head, eyes traveling the length of the rope they had all made. It wasn't yet complete; it would need to reach the landing almost the entire way down the mountain. This was why they only had vine enough for four ropes: because the distance was so long. For the briefest moment, Agron thought Nasir might ask him not to go. He thought the Syrian might ask him to refuse Spartacus when he asked Agron to accompany him - as they knew he would, despite Agron's insistence that he hadn't yet - but no such thing passed Nasir's lips. "Perhaps it can hold my weight as well," he said, glancing at the vine in his hands and tugging as if to test it.

Agron's heart swelled at the thought. How he would love having Nasir at his side. How he would love to watch the Syrian put to use his hard training, the skills he'd acquired - but no. It would have to wait until they were joined on the battlefield, after the Roman guards had all been slaughtered. It was something Spartacus would not want to risk, having two men on one rope. Such a thing would be too hard a test on the vines' strength. More than that, adding another man would lessen the chances of them remaining undetected. Agron knew the Thracian's mind and he knew strategy; Nasir would have to stay on the mountaintop until a different order came.

The gladiator reached out and brushed his knuckles gently over Nasir's cheek. The man's skin was warm, despite the cool and relentless wind. That warmth was something Agron would miss, if he were ever parted from it. "I would have you remain here," he then said. "Feet braced on rock and rope in hand." Fingers sought the Syrian's and found them, tangling beside the vine wrapped around them. "I trust no one else to hold tightly to my life as I trust you," he said finally, and his tone - so sure, so firm - drew Nasir's gaze again to his own. And so they remained for a moment, saying more in their eyes than they had with spoken words, and perhaps that was why Agron soon parted his lips in protest. Because in Nasir's dark eyes he'd seen a familiar defiance.

Seconds later, the Syrian was on his feet, the rope abandoned on the ground, and he was moving toward Spartacus before Agron stopped him. The gladiator took him by the arm and pulled him from path, turning to put himself between Nasir and the Thracian. "Nasir," Agron began, but was not allowed to continue. The Syrian tugged his arm from Agron's grip and looked up at the other man with a hard and stubborn expression that halted any other words that would come to the gladiator's lips.

"I will follow you over edge of mountain," Nasir said, determined, "and if we are quickly to the afterlife, then at least we are together." Brave words from a man who hadn't grown up a warrior but had instead been a house slave, never coming close to death except to hear about it. But Nasir was intimate with the concept now. He bore the scars that proved this fact. "I will not have you fall while apart from me," he added, and though there was strength in his voice, underneath was a note of pleading.

That this subject was even being broached was an indication of how desperate a situation they were all in. How many times had the two of them been separated before, Spartacus sending Agron on missions that always had an element of risk? And Nasir had never reacted like this. He had only waited until Agron was returned and then had happily taken the gladiator into his arms each time. But there seemed some finality in this mission. It wasn't a surrender to the idea of death, no, but it was acceptance of the most likely fate, and it was in no way unreasonable of Nasir to be making his demands. But they were still demands that could not be fulfilled.

So Agron would make promises to reassure his Syrian. He offered the man a smile and almost feared for his life in that moment, for Nasir narrowed his eyes at the grin. Perhaps the gladiator wouldn't die by the hand of a Roman after all but by the one he loved, on the top of that mountain, because he'd dared smile in the face of Nasir's worry. "I vow not to die until you join me in battle," he said, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around the back of Nasir's neck, fingers sliding through his hair. Much softer than the vines. "And when I am taken, I will wait for you at the gates of the afterlife." With that, Agron's smile softened, and he stepped forward to close the distance between them. "We will never be long apart," he said in a gentle voice, blue eyes searching Nasir's darker ones.

The sweet words were well-received, though the Syrian's conviction remained. "I have followed you everywhere until now," he whispered, and Agron was grinning again.

"You strayed once," he argued good-naturedly. He spoke, of course, of when Nasir had gone to the mines while Agron had moved toward the very mountain they now stood upon. The subject was one deserving of perhaps a little more gravity; Nasir had suffered a great wound and had almost died. But it seemed so far in the past and was dwarfed in the shadow of what was to come, so it was easier to make light of. It did draw a small, reluctant smile from Nasir, which had been the intention.

Though the smile only lasted for seconds, as did the levity. "But you found me. I remember—"

"I will never forget," Agron whispered. The desperate hope he'd felt, standing on the edge of the forest and staring into it, hoping it would bring Nasir back to him. And then the relief when finally he'd come upon the small party of survivors. And then the terror when Nasir had hovered so close to death. Gently, Agron rested his forehead against Nasir's, eyes closed, and behind his eyelids played the moment Nasir had lifted his head and looked at him with the sweetest grin before slipping into unconsciousness. The Syrian had stolen his heart even before then. That the gladiator now knew.

"Find me again," Nasir said. "If I cannot follow you."

Agron had promised once, and he would again. "I will," he returned.

"And we will kill the Romans together," Nasir continued. "For your brother and mine. For Chadara. For Mira." A short and shaking breath escaped the Syrian. In it was the soft sound of grief, though it wasn't allowed to last long. "For all of us."

_For all of us._ Those that had died rose in Agron's memory. Those that had been lost against Glaber. Those that had been victims of circumstance. Those that had been killed in the mines. Those that had been sacrificed in the streets of Capua. Those that had fallen within the house of Batiatus. And last, the one that had died in Agron's arms. A brother for whom the gladiator always fought. But Duro was not the only one. Agron too fought for the Syrian standing so close. In that moment the gladiator selfishly prayed to the gods to let him be called to the afterlife before Nasir was slain, because still, even in the face of what was sure to be certain death, Agron could not bear the idea of watching the life flee from the one he loved. He had done it once. That had been too many times.

To what the Syrian had said Agron could find no words with which to answer, but he needed none. Instead, he leaned forward just as Nasir lifted his chin and they came together in a kiss. It was as gentle as the first they'd shared, though it lingered a little longer, and it was full of all they had shared since. They embraced and somehow it felt like both the first and the last time they'd hold one another. But an eternity awaited them in the afterlife, an embrace that would be everlasting, and that would be a welcome and deserved end.

* * *

_THE END_ UNTIL JANUARY 2013


End file.
